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MARY 





Winifred Graham 



MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
NEW YORK MCMX 




COPYRIGHT I9II BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

I 

OFFERED — A LADY GARDENER 


I 

II 

A MOTORIST COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 


15 

III 

MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 


24 

IV 

THE GABRIEL BELL 


40 

V 

THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 


56 

VI 

THE OTHER WALKER IN THE GARDEN 


67 

VII 

PASSION FLOWERS 


8l 

VIII 

THE MYSTERY OF MARY 

• 

IOO 

IX 

MARY'S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


119 

X 

THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 


134 

XI 

THE FIRST SITTING 


155 

XII 

MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 


171 

XIII 

WHAT MARY DID 


183 

XIV 

“why not?” 


201 

XV 

THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


2l8 

XVI 

A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 


234 

XVII 

MARY THE MOTHER 


245 

XVIII 

THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 


257 

XIX 

THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


272 

XX 

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


287 

XXI 

WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


305 

XXII 

THE GREATER MEANING 


321 

XXIII 

WHICH IS THE GATE? 


337 

XXIV 

WHERE THE TREE FALLS 


354 

XXV 

THE LAST LETTER 


362 

XXVI 

A DEAD MAN'S DEED 


368 

XXVII 

MARY'S GIRDLE 


38r 

XXVIII 

THE PILGRIM'S STORY 


387 

XXIX 

GOOD-NIGHT 


392 













MARY 


CHAPTER I 

OFFERED A LADY GARDENER 

A RROW PENREATH heard his study door open, 
but did not look up. He kept his eyes riveted 
on the paper he was reading, and Porterton, the butler, 
felt the silent desire for solitude expressed by his mas- 
ter’s manner. 

At last a hesitating voice spoke diffidently — 

“If you please, sir ” 

The paper was flung down. It slipped to the ground 
and lay in an untidy heap on the hearthrug, while 
Arrow sat upright, with contracted eyebrows, as he 
muttered an impatient “Well, well?” 

“Monk won’t go away without seeing you, sir. He 
pleaded so hard, that he persuaded me at last to trouble 
you again. He talks wildly of injustice and says he has 
been ruined by some person who must have plotted his 
downfall for months. He begs you for one last word. 
He will not believe that your decision is final.” 

Arrow crushed the fallen newspaper under his heel. 
For a moment he stared into the deep crimson pit of 
the fire with unseeing eyes, asking himself why he, of 
all men, should be troubled by a domestic upheaval, 
1 


2 


MARY 


when such incidents were utterly antagonistic to his 
nature? He resented trouble as the enemy of elevated 
thought. He wanted to live always in a world of his 
own, to create a perfectly harmonious atmosphere, to 
beautify every emotion, shutting out the ugly sins of 
sordid mercenary natures. Vice was as repugnant to 
him as mud when the pure white snow merges its beauty 
in the grime of earth. Yet vice had crept to his very 
doors, had reigned in his garden of Eden, casting a 
cloud over the joyous days of spring. 

“Very well, Porterton, show Monk in.” 

The words were spoken with a grudging disdain, 
clear, sharp, decisive. They conveyed the desire to get 
an unpleasant interview over with all possible speed. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The butler retired with quick, noiseless steps; he 
admired yet feared his master. He was surprised that 
Monk dared present himself again before the man he 
had undoubtedly swindled. The fact of such persist- 
ency made Porterton wonder if it were possible injustice 
had been done. 

He found the dismissed gardener waiting by an open 
door which led to a large conservatory. Monk’s eyes 
sought for the answer with hungry interrogation. 

“Yes,” replied Porterton to the dumb appeal of that 
yearning glance. “The master will see you in his study, 
but from the look of him it is not much good your 
trying to talk him over. You ought to know him well 
enough for that. He has got his own ideas and isn’t 
likely to change his mind.” 

Monk bowed his head, moving slowly in the direction 
of Arrow Penreath’s room. He hesitated for a moment, 
with trembling fingers lightly touching the door handle. 
It seemed to the palpitating soul without that the man 


OFFERED— A LADY GARDENER 


3 

who sat in judgment within those study walls would 
hear the wild beating of his heart and feel with what 
fury the blood coursed through the quivering veins of 
an accused servant. Some note of pity must surely 
answer to the throbbing of pulses, which quickened 
until their owner could scarcely bear the sensation of 
nervous dread and keen despair. 

He entered the study with lowered eyes. All the 
fine language he intended using died upon his lips. His 
throat grew parched, his forehead moist. With diffi- 
culty he kept back his tears. 

For a moment he feared speech would absolutely fail, 
then with an effort he stammered: 

“It’s all imtrue. You can’t believe, sir, that I am a 
thief, a swindler. There is devil’s work in this, and I 
have been made the cat’s-paw of a devil. I never robbed 
you of a farthing. Your interests were mine. I set 
such store by all your wishes, that I would sooner have 
cut off my right hand than do you an injury.” 

His voice shook with passion, the man’s body swayed 
as he spoke, his hands were clenched with convulsive 
pressure. He breathed hard, and the sound of his 
panting was peculiarly distasteful to Arrow. 

His master shrugged impatient shoulders and spoke 
sharply, weary of discussing a matter which had already 
been thrashed out. 

“It is no use trying to justify yourself, Monk. I 
tell you I have proofs of your dishonesty. I discovered 
I was being swindled more than a fortnight ago, and 
subsequent investigations show me this double dealing 
has been going on for many months — possibly years. 
It takes time to discover a small leakage, and I relied on 
you absolutely, until my eyes were opened. You will 
leave my service as quickly as possible — and without a 


MARY 


4 


character. I have said it before, I repeat it again now, 
and this is my final word.” 

The speaker turned his head away, that he might 
not see Monk’s confusion. It was certainly difficult 
to believe that such an apparently excellent fellow 
should have fallen upon evil days and indulged the 
sordid vice of pilfering. At “Rutherwyke Place” the 
post of head gardener was an important one, for both 
Mr. and Mrs. Penreath were great beauty-lovers and 
took personal pride in the stately old-fashioned grounds. 
It was not a small matter that Monk could boast he 
had complete control of a show-place and worked in the 
service of a celebrated R.A. Now the rugged face of 
the gardener wore a dazed expression. He was pale, 
haggard, unnerved. He saw his words had no effect 
upon his master, could trace no look of sympathy or 
reassuring sign. From head to foot he grew cold as 
stone. Yet to move away at once, to go in silence, 
proved a physical impossibility. Again he returned 
doggedly to the attack. 

“There’s some mistake,” he muttered — “some mis- 
take. I have been blackened by an unknown enemy 
here, where I thought I was surrounded with friends.” 

His master made a sign to him to leave, enough had 
been said. In the face of glaring evidence, Monk’s 
words sounded empty and unconvincing. 

Still, the figure in the slate-colored suit hesitated, 
with a shy shuffling of feet and a glance of despair 
which traveled round the study walls. 

“I know,” he added, “appearances are against me. 
I know full well that another person has managed to 
throw the blame on innocent shoulders, getting me into 
such a tight corner that it really looks as if I were all 
you say. But even if you offered me another chance 


OFFERED — A LADY GARDENER 


5 


now, sir, I wouldn’t take it, to be under suspicion. I 
could not bear to look you in the eyes, with the knowl- 
edge you thought me a thief.” 

Mr. Penreath waved his hand in the direction of the 
door. 

“That will do,” he said, turning to a number of letters 
on the desk, which apparently demanded his immediate 
attention. “You are not offered another chance, and 
your supposition of an unknown enemy is a very unlikely 
one. We have talked of this matter quite long enough. 
I must ask you to go without further argument.” 

His voice sounded cold and hard, with a well-feigned 
lack of interest. 

Monk turned a pair of reproachful gray eyes full 
upon his late master. He saw a man of medium height, 
in the prime of life, possessed by a certain restlessness, 
which had always seemed to the head gardener to ex- 
press an ever-flowing current of genius and artistic 
endeavor. Certainly one who produced such world- 
famed pictures could not be expected to share the mild 
vegetable temperament of everyday nonentities. Fires 
of ambition and high endeavor burned within that form 
of ordinary build, showing their light through the 
bright steel of his eyes, which only so recently flashed a 
look of condemnation upon the suspected servant. 

“Good-day to you, sir,” said Monk humbly, and there 
was a catch in his throat which turned the words into 
something like a sob. “I won’t trouble you again.” 

“Good-bye,” answered Penreath soberly, without 
looking up. For a moment it seemed he was almost 
more embarrassed than Monk. 

Then the door closed and the man who had judged 
was left alone. 

He read the letters spread before him mechanically, 


6 


MARY 


his sight, rather than his brain, following the words. 
Then, impatiently, he pushed the little pile together 
and thrust the unwelcome heap into an already over- 
crowded niche of his desk, kept for unanswered letters. 
He hated the labor of writing as fervently as he loved 
the labor of art. Save for the hard work done in his 
studio, he reduced the science of life to a science of ease. 
Letters, however important, were thrown aside impa- 
tiently. If people desired replies, let them come and 
ask — easy enough in these days of motors and express 
trains. As to invitations, was it likely he was going to 
fritter away his time upon dinners, luncheons or coun- 
try-house visits? The last he regarded as absolute 
slavery, the entering of a gilded prison, the voluntary 
resignation of free will and home comforts. A hostess 
was a warder with invisible keys, demanding obedience, 
while the best-natured host on earth made Penreath feel 
like a caged lion, raging to escape from the routine of 
zoological gardens. 

It was partly this love of home and quiet which made 
him so dislike anything in the nature of a scene. Once 
he had assured himself of Monk’s dishonesty, the sub- 
sequent dismissal came as an upheaval in the tranquil 
program of his working day. Josephine, who usually 
removed from her husband’s shoulders the yoke of 
mundane matters, absolutely declined to tell Monk he 
must go. 

“I like the man,” she said ; “I have always liked him. 
If he swore he was innocent, I should not have the 
courage to declare he was guilty. It would probably 
end in him staying on and robbing us again.” 

Her words were so obviously true, she was allowed to 
retire into the background of this small unpleasant 
drama. 


OFFERED— A LADY GARDENER ST 

Arrow Penreath’s study commanded a fine view of 
well-kept grounds, blazing with tulips on this early May 
morning. 

Monk had planted the bulbs in quantity, that his 
master’s eye might be fed by groups of glorious color. 
Some of the patches were almost painful to look upon, 
with the full sun showing up their rich deep crimson, 
at the base of which lay a pool of dark relief, an inky 
splash on the heart of the flower chalices. The artist’s 
favorite tulip, known as the Cottage, flooded the broad 
borders in compliment to his fancy, straying in brilliant 
lines down long grassy avenues. Some had been traced 
to old French gardens, while others originated in the 
cottage homes of England, Scotland and Ireland. Each, 
in its own individual way, seemed holding a brief for 
Monk, as Penreath’s troubled gaze turned to the win- 
dow, opened widely to admit the soft spring air. Every 
possible hue appeared spread before him, a feast to 
satisfy his artistic sense. Rich carmine, heliotrope, 
amber and creamy white floated in gay regiments as far 
as eye could reach, soft primrose shading to golden yel- 
low, tender salmon melting into rosy scarlet. 

Certainly Monk could regard his work and say with 
truth : 

“So far I have done well.” 

A soft footfall warned the owner of those flowered 
acres he was no longer alone. Josephine had pushed 
the door open silently, moving with the slow grace which 
characterized her every action. She had mastered the 
method of correct breathing and walked with an air of 
easy dignity and self-possession. She was an excep- 
tionally young-looking woman for her age. Her supple 
figure, with its air of girlish elasticity, made it impos- 
sible to believe she could have a son of eighteen, already 


8 


MARY 


at Cambridge. Her youth was acquired by the gentle 
talent of repose and discretion. To the very tips of her 
fingers she was femme du monde, always conscious of 
perfect control and well-ordered thought. She knew 
her world intimately from a life of varied experience, 
foreign travel and social intercourse. On all occasions 
she used her intelligence, cultivated tact and thoroughly 
understood her husband’s somewhat nervous and highly 
strung disposition. She was mentally and physically 
fitted to excel in the exact sphere where Providence had 
placed her. In appearance she was singularly decep- 
tive, since Time’s hand left the delicate molding of her 
face and clear, bright complexion untouched. In fact, 
she was a Josephine of her own creation and carried her 
own atmosphere of unruffled calm. 

Her voice, if a trifle artificial, was cleverly trained 
to a low melodious key, which never rose, even in 
moments of intense excitement, thus showing that art 
had, in this direction, become second nature. 

“How did Monk take his dismissal?” she asked, look- 
ing up inquiringly into her husband’s eyes and reading 
there an expression of worry, as he leaned upon the 
window-sill, inhaling the morning fragrance. 

Arrow passed his hand over his forehead, as if to 
brush away the recollection. 

“Well, he didn’t exactly take it lying down. First 
he protested innocence, then vaguely hinted some mali- 
cious person must be making a scapegoat of him, but 
the defense was very feeble, and I refused to listen. I 
had already, you know, given him my proofs, at which 
he appeared dumfounded. I thought yesterday he was 
going to faint when I pointed out the altered figures in 
the account book. It is very unpleasant sending an old 


OFFERED— A LADY GARDENER 


9 


servant away under a cloud ; I hope it may never happen 
again. It is also tiresome having to look out for an- 
other man, who may cheat us even more successfully 
than Monk.” 

Josephine laid a soothing hand upon Arrow’s 
shoulder. 

“Don’t think of that, dear. You can leave the finding 
of the new gardener to me. I have just heard from 
Lady Constance Eastlake. I know you call her a crank, 
but she really has done wonders with her School for 
Lady Gardeners. I happened to mention our dilemma 
in my last letter, and she declares women of gentle birth 
and good education fill such posts far more satisfac- 
torily than men. Shall I read you her letter? She 
makes a suggestion which I fancy you may like to 
follow.” 

There was a quiet business-like air about his wife 
which was peculiarly soothing to the artist’s nerves. 
He nodded his willingness to listen, and Josephine drew 
a thick sheet of writing paper from a beaded bag, sus- 
pended by an amethyst chain from her elbow. 

“ ‘Dearest Jo,’ ” began the deep-toned voice, but the 
words were immediately interrupted. 

“I wish she would not call you Jo,” muttered Arrow, 
lighting a briarwood pipe, his constant companion. “A 
two-lettered name does not express you in any way. 
Abbreviations only suit abbreviated natures. Lady 
Constance has a mania for clipping what she considers 
superfluous syllables.” 

Josephine waited patiently till he had finished his 
objections, making no protest at the interruption, then 
she said with a smile: 

“I think Jo delicious. It takes ten years off my age.” 


10 


MARY 


Nevertheless her calm manner was an unspoken re- 
proach, and Arrow listened silently as she continued 
reading : 

“ ‘So very sorry to hear of your trouble with Monk. 
Will you try a new experiment, and let me send a lady 
gardener to take his plaoe? I would not recommend 
this novel step in the management of the Rutherwyke 
gardens unless I felt sure I could supply a highly 
talented, absolutely trustworthy woman. She has taken 
the lead here for the past year and exerts a most ex- 
traordinary influence upon the other workers. Every- 
thing seems to thrive beneath her care, and I must 
confess I hardly know how we shall get on without her. 
Still, it is the object of the school to equip pupils for 
responsible posts, and we have little difficulty in finding 
them good situations, which they usually fill with satis- 
faction. Besides, Mary wishes to go, though we have 
made a real friend of her. She gives no reason for this 
wish, which is a little painful to me, since I have grown 
strangely fond of her. When she leaves, something will 
go out of my life, but until you know her, you will 
hardly be able to appreciate my feelings. I cannot 
really claim that her talents have developed in the East- 
lake School, much as I should like to feel she owed her 
knowledge to the training here. Oddly enough, Mary 
had little to learn; she seemed to know everything by 
instinct. Her love of flowers is intense. She is like a 
devoted mother in a nursery, and the care and attention 
given to her duty is even a marvel to me, though I in- 
variably expect a great deal. She would be quite con- 
tented to live alone in your gardener’s cottage. She is 
of a very quiet and retiring disposition. There is just 
one thing about her which might not suit some people, 


OFFERED— A LADY GARDENER 


11 


but knowing you and Arrow as I ^o, I don’t think it 
would prove a serious objection. She is undeniably 
beautiful, but her beauty is not the type to create sus- 
picion. She is simple in manners, habits and conversa- 
tion and her record is absolutely good. She has the 
unspoiled beauty of purity and light, of the flowers 
themselves, not the beaut e de diable. She could come as 
soon as you please. Let me hear your views quickly, I 
am so anxious to send Mary to you — for many reasons. 

“ ‘Yours impatiently, 

“ ‘Constance Eastlake.’ ” 

The letter was carefully folded again and replaced in 
Josephine’s bag. 

Arrow Penreath smiled somewhat grimly as he turned 
the idea over in his mind. 

“Lady Constance is all enthusiasm, but I wonder 
what Vines and the other men would think of it,” he 
remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke into combat with 
the sunshine. “Of course, I can see Vines aspires to 
step into Monk’s shoes; he is a pushing young fellow 
and ambitious, but not experienced enough to take the 
lead.” 

Josephine agreed. 

“He has a good deal to learn yet,” she said. “I fear 
he is hardly the man for a responsible post. He does 
what he is told; for the rest, I do not think his talents 
are very great.” 

Arrow’s deep-set eyes wore a somewhat perplexed 
expression as his wife waited for him to speak again. 

“I am quite willing,” he said, “to try the lady- 
gardener experiment, if you are of the same opinion. 
Beauty is rare and not to be despised; for that reason 
alone we might give her a chance. Thank Heaven, I did 


MARY 


12 

not marry a narrow-minded woman in deadly fear of a 
pretty face.” 

Josephine laughed lightly, glad that her husband 
appreciated Constance Eastlake’s proposal and her own 
unsuspicious nature. 

“You see I trust you,” she replied fondly. “I cannot 
imagine a more lowering position than to look upon 
models or servants as possible rivals. Knowing your 
dislike to all that is ugly in life, I invariably surround 
you with good-looking people, and you have never made 
me regret my consideration. Now it has become quite 
a habit, and I instinctively avoid everything plain or 
unbeautiful for your sake.” 

He put his arm round Josephine and patted her 
shoulder tenderly. 

“A wife who doesn’t nag, a wife who isn’t jealous, a 
wife who understands — that’s the foundation of married 
happiness, a foundation we’ve sat tightly on for twenty 
years.” 

He spoke with a certain exaltation, which quarreled 
with his pipe. She thought so great a man should rise 
above the weakness of tobacco, yet she loved him for his 
homely habits. 

Despite the May morning and open window, the 
warmth of the fire was welcome in the quaint room, and 
she turned to its ruddy glow, attracted by the cheerful 
singing of coals, which suddenly appeared alive with 
sound. From the black mass the noisy flames spouted 
outward, dancing into vapor in mad musical hurry. She 
knelt on the hearthrug, fascinated by the unusual com- 
motion in the grate. 

“Did Lady Constance tell you Mary’s surname?” 
asked Arrow. 


OFFERED— A LADY GARDENER 


13 


Once more Josephine drew the closely written sheet 
from its resting-place. 

“I forget. I’ll look,” she said. 

As she ran her eye over the lines, the page was in 
shadow, and she bent nearer the fire. Simultaneously 
the heat from the singing gases leaped out and drew 
the piece of writing paper away, straight into the fierce 
bosom of the “well” grate. Josephine tried to snatch it 
back, but the heat held fast its prize, and the thick- 
ribbed vellum writhed, curled, stood almost upright, 
then fell against the bars. For a moment the writing 
was startlingly distinct, then it became a charred blur, 
save for the one word “Mary,” which stood out in letters 
of gold, illuminated by amber flames, holding the flimsy 
substance in some magic frenzy. 

“What are you looking at?” asked Arrow, his eyes 
momentarily dazzled by the light. 

His wife knelt with clasped hands, staring — staring 
into the burning heart of crimson. Then she beckoned 
her husband nearer. 

“Don’t you see?” she said. “The paper won’t burn. 
What a strange effect ! Can you read it, Arrow — that 
one word which resists the heat, yet seems to be alive?” 

“Yes,” he replied — “the name Mary.” 

As he spoke the papers shivered to ashes, the coals 
fell and the flames burned blue. 

Josephine was silent. Her husband made no com- 
ment. She dared not confess this simple incident woke 
in her heart a first faint warning of superstitious dread. 

Mary — a good woman, Mary — such a simple name, 
Mary — shining in fiery letters — a presence rather than 
a written word — a personality, strong with some mys- 
terious power. Josephine could almost have sworn a 


14 


MARY 


shadowy figure stood at her side and that spirit-voices 
whispered in her ear in strange, low musical accents the 
one persistent chant — 

“Mary ! Mary ! Mary !” 


CHAPTER II 


A MOTORIST COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 

C ONSTANCE EASTLAKE was delighted when she 
received Josephine’s reply, telegraphing at once 
she would motor to Rutherwyke the following Sunday. 
It was only a hundred-mile run, and that was nothing to 
Lady Constance and her husband, who flew about the 
country as thoughtlessly as birds on the wing, consider- 
ing merely their own comfort and convenience. 

Arrow laughed when Josephine handed him the wire, 
the laugh of the cynic and scoffer, as he pictured their 
coming in mocking words. 

“I suppose she and Max will arrive like a pair of 
demons on a 120-horse-power racing car, mud-stained 
but happy, having triumphantly broken the law of the 
land or added to their many experiences of being caught 
by the police. What a disgraceful couple, and yet in 
the eyes of society their lawless behavior is an amiable 
weakness.” 

Josephine shrugged her shoulders; she had no pa- 
tience with the motoring craze, which jarred upon her 
quiet temperament. 

“Constance is old enough to know better, but until 
she has killed herself or somebody else she will continue 
to tour the country on that disreputable-looking ma- 
chine, which is only fit for the track at Brooklands and 
should not be allowed on ordinary roads. Still I am 
15 


16 


MARY 


ver y glad she is coming. I want to hear all about Mary ; 
I have many questions to ask Constance. Her letter 
filled me with curiosity.” 

Rutherwyke Place stood at the top of Rutherwyke 
Hill, just above the picturesque village of Abbotts 
Brooke. The artist had chosen this spot, since it com- 
manded one of the finest views in Surrey. On the day 
of Lady Constance’s lightning pilgrimage to the Pen- 
reaths the country cottagers were brought to their 
doors by the thunder of the Eastlakes’ engines as a long 
bodiless car rushed by, vomiting flames f rom its mighty 
interior. It whirled up Pilgrim Way, it flashed through 
Rutherwyke Lane, leaving the great high-road from 
London to Salisbury in a cloud of dust, which momen- 
tarily blinded the terrified children, shrinking back into 
the whitened hedge, thrilled by a sense of joyful fear at 
witnessing such speed. Danger wielded its inevitable 
fascination, and they sighed with regret w r hen the mon- 
ster vanished from view. 

“On the Sabbath, too!” muttered one old woman in 
her dust-laden porch. “It’s enough to bring down the 
judgment of Heaven. Wouldn’t I like to see ’em look 
back and turn into pillars of salt.” 

As she peered after the retreating car she could just 
discern two figures perched on small bucket seats, while 
a satellite balanced himself miraculously behind on a 
part of the machinery. 

The gates of Rutherwyke Place were set open to 
receive the expected guests, but long before they reached 
the house the roar of their coming could be heard in the 
distance. 

Josephine and Arrow, seated by an old stone fountain 
under the peaceful shade of trees, enjoyed in silence the 
gentle falling of water and spring-like notes of birds, 


A MOTORIST APPEARS 


17 


which alone broke the mysterious hush of the garden, 
until the thunder of the car echoed its approach from 
the distant glades of Pilgrim Way. 

They exchanged glances and roused themselves from 
a stupor of drowsy content. A few minutes later Por- 
terton preceded Lady Constance into the garden; she 
followed him with springing steps, wearing a very short 
brown skirt, leather coat and high tan boots. A man’s 
cap, guiltless of veil, fitted tightly to her mop of crim- 
son curls, growing in confusion over a well-shaped head. 
Her face was long and freckled, with good features and 
bright hazel eyes — such utterly fearless eyes, looking 
merrily out upon the world with keen appreciation, 
showing their owner’s observant nature as an open win- 
dow reveals the interior of a room. Her downright way 
of speaking somewhat alarmed strangers, but endeared 
her to friends, who called it characteristic and knew 
her words to be free from venom. 

“Hallo, Jo !” she cried as Mrs. Penreath advanced. 
“I suppose you heard us miles away. This garden is 
like Paradise after the dust; I am ever so glad to be 
here. What a setting for you and your artist — deli- 
cious !” 

She kissed Josephine warmly and waved an out- 
stretched hand at Arrow. 

“Good-day to you, Genius,” she continued jokingly. 
“I have come to a land of roses and dreams.” 

“Where is Max?” he asked as the energetic fingers 
grasped his own with the firmness of a man. 

“Only washing some grime off ; he will be here di- 
rectly. You can’t keep clean in our new car. Max is 
going abroad to compete in some races next week and 
feels so sure of success that to hint at failure is an 
offense. If thoughts are things of power, his should 


18 


MARY 


bring him many victories. He says England is impos- 
sible, and though he has been fined scores of times, will 
not acknowledge that he goes fast — calls it crawling. 
I am simply dying for a cig.” 

There was something peculiarly boyish in her breezy 
manner as she drew a cigarette case from her coat 
pocket and turned to Arrow for a light. 

“I want exercise,” she added vigorously. “I feel 
cramped after sitting so long. You wait for Max and I 
will go round the garden with Jo.” 

Lady Constance slipped her arm through Mrs. Pen- 
reath’s and together they strolled in the direction of a 
vast forest of herbaceous flowers, with grass walks 
between the full rich borders, like broad bowling alleys 
of green, lined by dazzling blossom. The day breathed 
fragrance and the atmosphere was so clear that for 
miles the smallest objects were visible. The view from 
Rutherwyke lay bathed in sunshine, apparently wrapped 
in amorous slumber, so still, undisturbed and radiantly 
passive in its restful setting of emerald, overshadowed 
by eternal blue. 

“I am indeed glad you are going to try the experi- 
ment I suggested,” murmured Constance in a low voice 
directly Arrow was out of earshot. “Mary Aquila is a 
mystery, but quite the most delightful one I ever came 
across. I am pretty good at pumping people, but for 
two years I have failed to discover any details of her 
past life, except the fact that one can hardly mention 
any place in England she has not visited. She seemed 
to know Abbotts Brooke, but said she had not been there 
for many years. Yet she is quite a young woman, and 
one would imagine too poor to travel. She declares she 
has always lived the life of a simple peasant and merely 
spends the money earned by her own labor. She is ex- 


A MOTORIST APPEARS 


19 


traordinarily charitable. The people on the estate 
simply worship her, and to all appearances she is well 
bred and might go into any society. Perhaps you may 
solve the problem I can never hope to understand ; it is 
above and beyond my comprehension.” 

Josephine stopped to pick a flower which exactly 
toned with the delicate mauve of her dress. As she 
pinned its stem to the lace of a floating scarf, she 
glanced up and caught the full expression of Lady 
Constance’s eyes. Their merry raillery had vanished; 
they wore instead a strangely rapt look, full of awe 
and wonder, while her clasped hands suggested emo- 
tional tension. Mrs. Penreath felt so startled at the 
change that she hurriedly discussed conventional sub- 
jects, with a strange fear knocking at her heart. 

“I am no good at guessing riddles, but I dare say I 
shall not see much of her,” murmured Josephine. “I 
want to consult you about Monk’s cottage and other 
arrangements. He has taken his furniture away, but I 
understand Mary wishes to bring her own. I am going 
to have the little place repapered and painted. Has she 
any particular fancy? You know I asked you in my 
letter to kindly find out her wishes on the subject.” 

Lady Constance shook herself free from that momen- 
tary reverie which carried her far away from Ruther- 
wyke and the woman at her side. 

“Ah! yes, I remember. She begs, if you have no 
objection, that it may all be painted pure white, with 
just a plain white paper. She wants to carpet the 
rooms in deep blue felt. She always wears an absolutely 
plain blue gown, the shade I call ‘church’ blue. It is 
extraordinarily becoming to her simple unadorned 
beauty. Really, last summer, when I saw her moving 
about among the Madonna lilies, she looked as if she 


20 MARY 

were the Virgin Mother, the Holy Mary herself, come 
to life.” 

Josephine gazed with open surprise at the speaker. 
Could this be Constance Eastlake, the practical un- 
imaginative wife of an equally unimaginative husband? 

“I have never known you wax poetical before,” she 
declared. ‘‘This is something new. Is it the result of 
Mary’s influence?” 

Constance smiled ; her eyes looked through Josephine 
to some fair vision beyond. 

“Possibly, but do think of my words when the lilies 
bloom, and judge for yourself if my simile was not per- 
missible. I dare say she will surprise you now and 
again. To-day a small incident occurred, which I 
thought would have infuriated Max. As we passed the 
school gardens Mary suddenly appeared and stopped 
our progress by peremptory gestures. Max was bound 
to draw up, thinking, of course, something serious had 
occurred. She came quite close to us, stretching her 
hands over the bonnet of the car, looking hard at my 
husband with her fathomless eyes. Then, as he bent 
forward inquiringly, she said in a strangely clear voice : 
‘Be careful of the children.’ It was more than a warn- 
ing; it was a command, certainly most extraordinary 
from an inferior. It absolutely took my breath away, 
but oddly enough he did not seem angry. I don’t know 
what he would have replied, but she drew back quickly 
and was gone, almost before we realized she had moved. 
We hardly spoke of it as we came along ; Max was silent 
and my lips felt tied. Yet all the way I heard those 
words ringing in my brain, and once, as he slowed up 
through a town, I caught him murmuring : ‘Be careful 
of the children.’ Now there is not another woman in 
England who would have dared to stop a man like Max 


A MOTORIST APPEARS 


21 

and give him such simple, heartfelt advice. I know it 
made a deep impression; his silence told me that.” 

Arrow’s voice reached Josephine in the brief pause 
which followed Constance’s words. He came toward 
them with Max, conversing freely in unguarded accents. 
Mrs. Penreath glanced quickly round in search of lis- 
tening ears. 

“I can see Vines, our second gardener, is pretty sick 
about it all,” the artist was saying. “When I first told 
him he was to be under a woman, he didn’t believe me — 
thought I was having a joke. Then, he declared, if it 
were true, he would prefer leaving, as the situation 
would be an impossible one. I took his decision quite 
quietly, and when he saw I was not at all put out at the 
prospect, he changed his mind and condescended to say 
he would stay on for a bit. I rather pity the newcomer. 
She will have to contend against a good deal of oppo- 
sition on the part of the men.” 

Max Eastlake listened with a mild show of interest. 
He was built on a large scale, with amazingly long arms, 
a broad, fair, smiling face and well-fed, well-groomed 
body, decked in a light check suit, which few figures 
could have worn successfully. He was capable of 
humor, occasionally tinged with sarcasm, and being a 
fatalist, held his own life and the lives of others in light 
esteem. He prided himself on his taste for “the glori- 
ous mania of speed,” which lifted him above the ruck 
of slow-moving pedestrians and mole-like creatures. He 
believed firmly that he was living a wide and splendid 
existence, looking upon himself as a hero and celebrity, 
ready to risk life and limb for a cause. The racing car 
was his god, an all-dominating passion in which he had 
steeped his soul. It was his idol, his creed, his daily 
thought. In Constance he found a woman with tastes 


22 


MARY 


as abnormal as bis own ; the result was mutual happiness 
and a puny half-witted child, whose affliction apparently 
escaped the notice of a preoccupied father and mother. 

Arrow’s sympathy for Mary over Vines’ strong re- 
sentment struck Max as unnecessary and slight^ amus- 
ing as he pictured the woman whose spirit made itself 
felt like the warm rays of the sun which gladden the 
plainest landscape and beautify the humblest home. 

“Wait and see,” he said, “before you pity our lady 
of the garden. I don’t mind betting you a pony Vines 
will be her devoted slave within twenty-four hours.” 

Arrow stroked his chin and looked at Max out of the 
corner of his eyes. 

“Is she so fascinating?” 

“Oh! it isn’t exactly fascination, it’s power — you 
will know what I mean when she comes, the power of 
simple goodness, which even a road hog can feel, when 
everything else becomes blotted out by dust.” 

He laughed at his own expense as he uttered the 
satirical condemnation of his cult. 

“I offered to run her over here in the car when her 
time is up with us,” he continued, “but she scorned the 
idea. She will come by a slow train in a humble third- 
class carriage, where she will soothe the savage breasts 
of fretful babies and talk of their infant charms until 
the gratified mothers believe they have borne angels 
unawares. Oddly enough, Constance tells me the most 
devilish squawker becomes angelic in Mary’s arms. At 
Abbotts Brooke station she will send her modest luggage 
to the cottage by hand and walk through the village 
with that rapt expression on her face which makes 
every one turn and stare. She has a regal walk, which 
hardly prepares one for the humility of her mind. A 
personal compliment is agony to her soul. She appar- 


A MOTORIST APPEARS 


23 


ently has no idea that her radiant beauty might bring 
her fame and fortune. I often think of the fields she 
leaves unconquered out of sheer ignorance. It makes 
one long to enlighten her, if she had not such a fine 
scorn for riches.” 

Josephine and Constance fell back to listen while Max 
talked. 

“Mary won’t believe money brings happiness,” said 
Lady Constance. “She is really not of this age. One 
might almost imagine she had come into the world by 
mistake.” 

Max shrugged his enormous shoulders and laughed as 
he added: 

“Possibly the reason why we hear so little of her 
antecedents. But, joking apart, I am convinced Arrow 
w r ill immortalize her face on canvas. I shall look for 
our lady in next year’s Academy.” 

“But what will the garden do while she is sitting?” 
asked Josephine. 

Constance glanced from left to right, taking in the 
splendid acres of floral cultivation. “Oh! the garden 
will still feel her influence and thrive.” 

Josephine paid little heed to the words, only after- 
ward, when recalling all Constance had said of Mary, 
she remembered how seriously they were spoken. She 
thought, too, of the name written in letters of gold, 
shining in the depths of the study fire. 

Not until the moon rose and the romantic grounds 
of Rutherwyke lay bathed in silver light did the fierce 
bellowing of the racing car once more rudely warn the 
quiet village of Abbotts Brooke that devils were abroad. 
But the driver slowed as he neared the cottages, and 
though he did not speak, he said in his heart : 

“Be careful of the children.” 


CHAPTER III 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 


BBOTTS BROOKE wore a summer garb of cot- 



tage flowers. Porches bright with climbing 
plants showed open doors welcoming the air and light. 
The main road to Rutherwyke lay parched and white as 
the face of death. Wending her way through the sunny 
village came an unknown figure, wearing a gown of deep 
rich blue, made in such plain harmonious lines that the 
dignified grace of its simplicity caught the eye and 
soothed the senses. It was a nameless poem, suggesting 
the tone of foreign seas, the azure of Italian skies. The 
passers-by looked in wondering admiration at the 
beauty of the woman in blue. Children paused in their 
games and pointed to the radiant face of the stranger, 
without uttering a word, as if seeing a vision which 
robbed them of speech, until Mary’s sympathetic smile 
set the small heads nodding in response. Now and again 
she stopped to address a baby creature, who, instead of 
drawing away in youthful shyness, came close to her 
skirt, lingering there as though fascinated by the fair 
features and kindly voice. Infantile hands touched her 
garments without fear as she bent to ask some question 
which showed how deeply she understood the inner work- 
ing of the child-mind. Her words seemed to reach the 
tiny soul as a ray of light pierces a closed casement. 
Gradually as she mounted the hill she saw on each side 


24 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 25 


of the road women standing at the gates of small gar- 
dens or hovering in the open doorways of humble houses 
as if awaiting an expected sight. 

Involuntarily Mary’s eyes traveled in the direction of 
the turned heads and eager glances, quickly noting the 
reason of the interest. On the pale highway, bathed in 
sunlight, a dark object appeared — a hearse drawn by 
a single horse and followed by one mourning coach. 
Slowly the inky spot took clearer form, the brilliant day 
showing up the black carriage in which the dead rode 
forth — sunbeams dancing round the silver fittings and 
making play upon the humble flowers that decked the 
coffin lid. Involuntarily a hush fell upon Abbotts 
Brooke, the women lowered their voices, the children 
were cautioned to “get out of the way and keep quiet” 
and for a moment even the singing of the birds sounded 
less vital and strong. 

“He was a good son to Mrs. Cray,” said a woman 
as she bent down to snatch a whistle from the brown 
hands of her four-year-old child. “Nothing he could 
do was too much for mother so long as he had the 
strength to work. The Lord knows how she’ll rub along 
without him. I guess we shall watch her being taken to 
burial next. They say she won’t see a soul. She shut 
herself away even from the vicar and slammed the door 
in Mrs. Pertree’s face when she called to offer a word 
of consolation. Seeing they were such friends, it isn’t 
surprising Mrs. Pertree was offended and gave out she 
shouldn’t draw down her blinds after such treatment. 
Of course I said as Mrs. Cray wasn’t responsible at such 
a time, but Mrs. Pertree answered back that she herself 
had lost three children and never denied a neighbor a 
sight of the corpse.” 

Mary turned to the speaker and touched her gently 


26 


MARY 


on the arm. The woman started and then stared in 
wide-eyed surprise at the beautiful face. Never had she 
seen such a pure, clear skin or exquisite features, but 
perhaps it was the complete harmony of the stranger’s 
appearance which especially appealed. 

Mary addressed her in a strangely soft tone. 

“Is Mrs. Cray a widow?” she asked, her voice full of 
sympathy. 

The laborer’s wife nodded as she glanced again up 
the road. 

“Yes, lady, and the boy was all the poor creature had 
in the world. She was like a mad thing when he got 
took with the consumption less than a year ago and 
went that thin he was like a walking skeleton. He was 
apprenticed to Mr. James the carpenter, and Mr. James 
was so fond of him, he offered to do the funeral free of 
charge. We always knew he was an open-handed gen- 
tleman and he appreciated the young man’s worth.” 

The nearness of the slowly moving procession neces- 
sitated silence. Mary stood with clasped hands, watch- 
ing the passing of the mother and son on their last 
journey together. Her eyes were moist with unshed 
tears as her gaze fell upon a bent form in heavy crape, 
visible through the half-closed window, a figure so 
mournful and bowed with woe that the stoniest breast 
must have softened at the spectacle of such untold grief. 
How easy to picture the desolation of that mind, the 
numb misery of a spirit in the prison-house of bitterest 
bereavement ! 

Until the somber carriages were out of sight Mary 
stood, riveted to the spot, gazing after the sad little 
funeral of youth, poverty and life cut short at its brave 
beginning. She could see deeply into the soul of the 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 27 


mother who shut herself away from friendship and 
consolation. 

Then she bowed farewell to the woman, who was 
handing back the whistle to her small boy. He blew 
it lustily, as though proclaiming that the silence and 
shadow were no more, the birds might sing again and 
the children play, since the widow and her son had 
vanished in the distance, to be forgotten quickly enough 
in the routine of daily toil. The spectators returned 
to their household duties, to the gossip over the clothes 
line, the scolding of fractious infants, the hundred petty 
demands of their small homes, momentarily dismissed 
by the majestic presence of death. 

The woman who had spoken to Mary also turned to 
re-enter her cottage, then, seized by a sudden idea, 
darted back to the gate, beckoning the retreating figure 
with an air of mystery. 

“Beg pardon, miss, but are you afraid of a drunk? 
Mrs. Benn has broken out again, and she lives along the 
road. Maybe you might like to cross over to the other 
side. You’re pretty sure to meet her coming back from 
the Lion’s Claw. She’s a bit abusive at times and it sort 
of scares strangers.” 

Mary bent her head once more in acknowledgment as 
she answered simply: 

“Thank you for the kind thought, but I am not 
afraid.” 

The woman turned to a neighbor in the next garden 
with a surprised shrug of her shoulders. 

“Seems as if she was one of us,” she murmured, jerk- 
ing her thumb in the direction of the classical blue gown, 
“but there ! I could have sworn she was a lady.” 

Mrs. Benn could already be seen emerging from the 
public house, where a little fair-haired boy stood pa- 


28 


MARY 


tiently waiting for his mother. She caught him roughly 
by the wrist, muttered an oath and dragged him after* 
her, as she reeled down the village path, in the direction 
of King’s Bench Cottages. The child was very pale, 
and his baby cheeks were splashed with tears as the 
woman’s cruel fingers gripped his tiny hand, leaving 
fierce nail prints on the flesh. They made a strangely 
ill-assorted couple, innocent youth linked to fiery red- 
faced age, silent baby lips and a foul, unguarded tongue 
speaking in guttural accents words unfit for the ears of 
a child. 

Mary watched Mrs. Benn with a sickening sense of 
horror that such a travesty of womanhood should bear 
the thrice-blessed name of mother. She made no move- 
ment to leave the path empty and kept her stand as the 
unsteady figure lurched toward her, waving a beer-jug 
to clear the way. 

“Git out o’ my sight,” she shouted hoarsely — “git 
out o’ my sight — you piece o’ Reckitt’s blue !” 

She dropped the child’s hand, that with both arms she 
might sweep the offender from her path. It was the 
wild, dizzy effort of a brain inflamed by excess. Sud- 
denly Mary’s figure grew majestic; she remained with- 
out flinching, looking the woman full in the face, with 
a gaze that even to the drunkard’s dazed intelligence 
appeared almost unearthly. The look seemed to steady 
the tottering feet and awake a sense of fear and keen 
resentment. Vice and purity were in spiritual conflict. 

“What are you doing? What are you here for?” 
muttered Mrs. Benn thickly. “I don’t know you and I 
want to get by. The path is mine as well as yours. 
What are you after?” 

“I am going to take your child home,” answered 
Mary, holding out her hand to the little fellow, who 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 29 


stood cowed and terrified behind his mother. “I think 
he will be glad to come with me.” 

Her voice was like music, the soft liquid notes of a 
harp when genius touches the strings. 

“Take him home,” jeered the woman, “why, we’re 
home already. Take him home !” she laughed stupidly. 
“I like that!” 

Mary turned her luminous eyes to the boy and in their 
depths a fond maternal glow inspired confidence, hope, 
love. 

“Would you like to come back to my home?” she 
asked. “I don’t think you can want to stay with your 
mother. You will be so much happier with me.” 

The boy rushed forward in quick response to the 
welcome suggestion and hid his face in the folds of the 
blue skirt. 

“Yes,” he said, clasping both little hands over Mary’s 
sleeves. “Yes, please.” 

Vaguely Mrs. Benn realized the invitation and ac- 
ceptance. 

“To your home?” she shrieked. “You want to steal 
my child?” A deeper fury flooded her brow with crim- 
son. “That’s the game, is it? You’re a robber. You’d 
bag my boy, would you? Police! police! Some one is 
takin’ the kid away. My Sam’s being stolen. I’ll have 
any one run in who dares lay a hand on him.” 

The sound of her strident voice brought a little crowd 
to the spot, and among the curious spectators a dark- 
eyed man, young and good looking, carrying a basket 
of flowers. He watched with deep curiosity the beauti- 
ful woman rescuing Sam from a repulsive and unnatural 
parent. 

Mary hardly appeared to see the figures gathering 
round. Her mind was evidently centered upon that one 


30 


MARY 


grotesque object of humanity. She stood, holding the 
child’s hand, and still gazing at Mrs. Benn with an 
expression of mingled pity and reproach. 

“When you are fit to be a mother, when you are a 
human being again, I will bring your child back to you,” 
she said in deep, telling accents. A buzz of applause 
greeted the words. 

“Well spoken!” muttered a tradesman who had 
jumped off his cart to discover what was occurring. 
“Mrs. Benn deserves all she gets. Good luck to you, 
lady. It’s a crying evil to see the child with that 
woman.” 

“Bravo ! miss,” added the man with the flowers. “I’ve 
some young ones of my own, and if ever I made such a 
brute of myself, I hope somebody would come along and 
take the children away. That woman is like a mad 
creature at times. I’ve seen her boy black and blue with 
the blows she has given him. You certainly can’t be 
too hard on her, whatever you say.” 

Mary tried to move on with Sam. 

“I’ll get you locked up, young person !” screamed the 
drunkard at the full pitch of her voice, barring the way 
successfully. “They know me at the police station — the 
station master’s a great friend of mine; my husband 
used to work on the line.” 

The muddled words came stumbling from her lips as 
she shook her fist in Mary’s face. 

“The lady has collared Benn’s brat,” shouted an 
older boy; “here’s a go! Fancy ’im finding a friend, 
what a bit of luck for Sam!” 

Mary raised a hand to demand silence. The move- 
ment had an instantaneous effect. Not even the shuf- 
fling of feet broke the sudden hush which fell. 

“The boy is coming with me,” she said, addressing 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 81 


the words to Mrs. Benn in a voice which rang out clearly 
on the spring air. “When you are sober, you can call 
and see me at the gardener’s cottage, Rutherwyke 
Place.” 

The man with the basket started so violently that 
some of his flowers fell to the ground. He stood for a 
moment staring at Mary in dumb surprise. Then he 
took a step forward and hesitated again. She turned to 
him with her wonderfully illuminating smile. 

“As you come from Mr. Penreath’s, perhaps you 
would tell me the nearest way to the cottage?” 

He wondered vaguely how she knew. He felt as if 
those bright eyes were looking deep down into his soul, 
with an expression so penetrating, that he grew red with 
sudden confusion. He stammered in halting accents: 
“Surely it’s never Miss Aquila?” 

She answered in a bell-like voice, which made him 
think of the seven chimes rung night and morning from 
the tower at Rutherwyke Place: 

“Yes. Am I not right in thinking you are one of the 
gardeners?” 

There was something so completely disarming in her 
open manner and quiet simplicity that the man forgot 
his previous resentment in marveling that one so fair of 
feature and with such natural dignity could, at the same 
time, be so unassuming. 

“My name is Vines, miss. I came next to Monk in the 
garden.” 

“Ah ! yes. I have heard of you.” 

The words were spoken reflectively, although Mrs. 
Benn still shouted abuse and would have snatched the 
child away but for Mary’s protecting arm. 

“We can go on together,” continued Mary. “I shall 
be glad of a guide, if you will kindly show me the way.” 


32 


MARY 


She took it for granted Vines would prove a willing 
escort. Instinctively she appealed to all that was chival- 
rous in mankind. 

“Are you bringing Sam along?” he asked with a 
doubtful glance at the child with the fair curls and 
wistful face. “I am not sure Mrs. Penreath will ap- 
prove of your having ‘Benn’s brat,’ as they call him, at 
Rutherwyke Cottage. You see, he isn’t too clean, and 
his mother bears such a very bad name.” 

Mary moved forward, with the small boy trotting at 
her side. 

“Mrs. Penreath won’t mind,” she answered confi- 
dently. “I am quite sure of that. You need not be 
alarmed.” 

Mrs. Benn was following with unsteady steps, mutter- 
ing curses between her frequent cries of “Stop thief !” 

“Well, of course, it is your affair, miss. But begging 
your pardon, how can you possibly know?” asked Vines, 
still speaking in a tone of almost reverent politeness. 
“You haven’t seen her yet, and I may tell you both she 
and the master are mighty particular.” 

Mary smiled down at the child as she felt his hand 
tighten on her own, such a poor little, unwashed hand, 
feverishly hot from the excitement of adventure. 

“I understood from Lady Constance Eastlake that 
Mrs. Penreath has a son. Well, when she thinks of him 
at Sam’s age, she won’t grudge the boy the shelter of 
the cottage, not if she has a woman’s heart.” 

Vines felt the truth of the remark. He had not 
regarded the matter in this light before. Mary’s words 
held wisdom as well as goodness. 

“Maybe not, if you put it to her in that way.” He 
turned back and shook his fist at Mrs. Benn. “Go home 
and stay there till you’re sober,” he cried. “You won’t 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE S3 


be let through the gates of Rutherwyke, so you had 
better save yourself the walk.” 

Sam peeped up through his long eyelashes. He was 
old for his six summers and knew the way of the limited 
world in which he lived. 

“Mother won’t follow us when we get by the Lion’s 
Claw,” he said. “She’ll go in there.” 

“Listen to his cunning,” muttered Vines. “I never 
heard the like. But it’s small wonder, miss, if he is old 
before his time with such a training.” 

The child pointed to a humble abode on the left of the 
winding road. The blinds were all drawn down and the 
house looked strangely desolate, guiltless of creeper or 
plant, and built of dull gray stone. 

“Mrs. Cray has gone to see her son off to heaven,” 
Sam announced, his shyness suddenly departing as their 
even steps outpaced Mrs. Benn’s stagger. “I wouldn’t 
like to live up there,” with a toss of his curls to the sky. 

“Why not?” asked Mary. 

Her eyes sought the wide expanse of blue and rested 
lovingly where the light shone brightest. 

“Too much thunder and lightning in that house for 
me,” added the child philosophically. 

“Ah !” murmured Vines, “he’s thinking of last week’s 
storm, it frightened my children, and the wife was quite 
nervous, too. She is a bit highly strung. A deal of 
damage it did in the garden. I don’t know what Monk 
would have said had he seen the way the tulips were 
punished. I miss Monk wonderful ; he was a good sort 
to work with and a great friend of mine.” 

Mary once more looked Vines full in the face, and his 
eyes fell before her glance. 

“I am surprised to hear you were friends,” she said. 

Vines flushed a violent crimson, his throat, his ears, 


34 


MARY 


his forehead turned red as the deep-hued roses he car- 
ried in his basket. 

“I guess,” he muttered, “that he found out your 
address and wrote something against me or it wouldn’t 
surprise you, miss. In some ways he was a queer chap, 
got it into his head I wanted his place. Not very likely 
— seeing I was a pal of his from the first.” 

Evidently the speaker was endeavoring to control 
some strong emotion. 

Mary appeared rapt in meditation. His heated 
retort in no way disturbed her equanimity. 

“I knew nothing of Monk,” she replied, “but some- 
times I fancy I see into people’s minds, perhaps it is liv- 
ing so close to nature, out in the open air. Our instincts 
tell us things that we could not divine otherwise. At 
least, this is my experience. We all possess unlimited 
powers, of which we are only dimly aware.” 

Vines wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. 

“A sort of thought reader,” he muttered. “I won- 
dered how you knew I came from Rutherwyke Place. 
Was that instinct, too?” 

She pointed to the black lettering on the white straw 
of the basket he carried. 

“I read the name. You forget you are labeled.” 

“Beg pardon, miss, it certainly slipped my memory, 
but what you said just now sounded a bit uncanny and 
sort of flustered me. To a plain-sailing fellow like my- 
self it’s strange to meet some one as looks into the mind. 
Might I make so bold as to ask if you would trust me 
in a matter of responsibility like? I’ve a bad way of 
expressing what I mean, but I think you will understand. 
I wouldn’t like to feel you were against me.” 

He turned to her with sudden hungering inquiry. 
She noticed that his hands were clenched and his eyes 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 35 


grew moist, as if with gathering tears. In some strange 
way she had moved this man to tempestuous emotion. 

“To be trusted,” she said, “you must first prove your- 
self trustworthy. It all lies in your own hands.” 

Vines felt puzzled at the evasive reply. Mary’s atti- 
tude was in no way critical, she merely appeared to 
speak her thoughts aloud. She gave him the impres- 
sion of quiet power and collected force. Her very 
presence at his side invigorated him physically. 

“Mother’s turned in at the Lion,” piped a juvenile 
voice at Mary’s elbow — “that’s a good thing !” 

The baby accents were bright with relief, and Sam’s 
demure steps now took the form of little runs and jumps. 
An evil presence had been removed, he no longer feared 
recapture nor did he hear Mary’s gentle sigh. 

“I expect you know,” said Vines, “that the master is 
a bit of a faddist, and not everybody gets on with him. 
He is eccentric and has queer ideas. I have never seen 
him go to worship at a church, but what he calls the 
Gabriel bell must ring without fail at 7 o’clock night 
and morning, something to do with religion. It has a 
wonderful tone, that bell ; the master bought it in a 
second-hand shop at Wapping. He said it was to be 
rung for the devotion named the Angelus, just a fad as 
I said before, because he likes to hear the sound and 
keep up an old custom which sensible folks have given 
up centuries ago. These great people, with lots of 
genius, are often mad in a quiet sort of way, I’ve heard 
tell.” 

They had reached the gates of Rutherwyke and Mary 
followed Vines into the grounds, glancing lovingly at 
the beauty of growth and blossom. He was eager to 
display the garden’s various charms and watch the effect 
on the newcomer. 


36 


MARY 


“I’ll take you first to the Monk’s Walk,” he said. 
“You may guess that’s an old name, nothing to do with 
our late gardener. It is a long mossy path, lined with 
choice conifers, cut in by hand, and the finest in the 
country. If we’d nothing here but the conifers, it 
would make the place talked of. You see this was all 
monastic ground once, the master is choked up with the 
history of it. I have seen him talking by the hour to a 
gentleman who was writing a book on these parts.” 

While Vines spoke his eyes brightened, and his man- 
ner became more alert as he warmed up to his part of 
showman. Certainly Mary had a wonderful way of 
listening. Here and there she paused to study the flow- 
ers, and Vines, watching her shadow falling across them, 
noticed that many a bud, which he thought would not 
bloom for days, had unexpectedly opened to welcome the 
newcomer. All around there was a fresh, unusual hum 
of insect life. Everything appeared more vitally alive 
than when he left Rutherwyke Place to walk to the 
village. Yet he felt sure this was no mere myth or sen- 
timent. The first butterflies of summer winged their 
flight in Mary’s direction, with the freedom and ex- 
hilaration of rhythmical movement. A delicious scent 
floated on the air, given out in greeting, an odor so 
pungently sweet that he could not locate it, the mysteri- 
ous blending of all that was delicate, pure and whole- 
some in Nature’s field of blossom. Little Sam appeared 
intoxicated by the flood of color and the refreshing in- 
fluence of soil, air and sun. He stretched out his baby 
hands with cries of joy and clapped them loudly. He 
tried to touch the whirling white wings of the butter- 
flies far beyond his reach; he bent to kiss the flowers 
and laughed up at Mary with infectious glee. 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 37 


“He don’t seem to treat you like a stranger, miss,” 
said Vines. 

Mary smiled down on the boy. 

“Children never do,” she answered softly. 

“Perhaps you’ve an instinct with them as well?” the 
man ventured to remark. 

“Possibly. They always know who loves them. I 
think they are given the knowledge as a special pro- 
tection. Children are never happy with unloving 
people.” 

Mary once more revealed her deep gift of intuition. 
Youth’s helplessness appealed forcibly to her woman’s 
heart. 

“Leastways that youngster knows who is his friend,” 
muttered Vines, with a grin, and waited for Mary to 
speak again. 

“Children see much which older people miss. They 
are nearer the angels, that is why we treasure them. 
But you know this, for you have children of your own.” 

She had turned into the Monk’s Walk. The velvety 
path of emerald moss, the mysterious silver of uniform 
trees suggested an atmosphere perfectly in keeping with 
cowled figures and sandaled feet. Vines had no poetical 
ideas upon the subject as he pointed from right to left, 
naming the various trees, which looked like fairy-tale 
monsters of silvered sea-weed, borrowing for their fo- 
liage the frost from delicate cobwebs, the shine of morn- 
ing dew and tender summer mists. Like sentinels they 
stood, those trees of matchless beauty, while Mary 
passed between the noble line, w r ith lingering steps and 
glowing eyes. 

Vines spoke at last with palpable pride: 

“You’ve never seen, I warrant, such specimens of 
Retinospora Plumosa Aurea, and just look at the shape 


38 


MARY 


and coloring of this Filifera. Each tree is a gem in its 
own line. Mrs. Penreath thinks the Obtusa the finest of 
the lot, but there ! she wouldn’t know one from the other, 
if Monk hadn’t schooled her up in the names.” 

At each fresh turn Vines had something of interest 
to narrate, hardly aware that by degrees the whole 
burden of the conversation fell upon his shoulders. He 
did not realize Mary had passed in absolute silence down 
the Monk’s Walk, with clasped hands, while the child 
ran on ahead, in pursuit of a rollicking bumble bee. 
Strange she could prove such a sympathetic companion, 
without uttering a word! From that quiet presence 
came an outflow of force, real though invisible, the 
power of a bright and hopeful spirit. 

When eventually they reached the cottage she just 
smiled her thanks, and murmuring “Come, Sam,” passed 
in as if it had been her home for years. Vines peered 
through the door at the newly whitened rooms, hardly 
able to reconcile the spotless interior with the previous 
residence of Monk. 

The late occupier had rejoiced in the adornment of 
family portraits, on somberly papered walls, and many 
knicknacks of the inexpensive order, collected by Mrs. 
Monk at shops termed “bazaars.” 

Vines could not have explained why, but a sense of 
chill and loss possessed him as Mary withdrew from his 
sight, closing the door. He lingered a moment, shivered 
slightly, thinking again of Monk and the tragedy of 
his departure. Then, finding the memory of that ill- 
fated friend singularly unpleasant, Vines turned and 
hurried away through the garden, which now seemed full 
of a strange new enchantment. The trees and plants 
were giving out an element he had never felt before, a 
vitalizing elixir, an atmosphere of joy. 


MARY COMES TO RUTHERWYKE 39 


“It’s a wonderful growing day,” he murmured to 
himself, “a wonderful growing day.” 

He passed by Penreath’s studio and saw his master 
in the doorway, palette in hand, mixing his paints. 

“Well, Vines,” he said, “seen Miss Aquila yet?” 

“I have, sir. I chanced to meet her in the village as 
she was walking up from the station. We came the rest 
of the way together.” 

Arrow remembered Max Eastlake’s words. So the 
motor had not been requisitioned and Mary preferred to 
arrive humbly on foot. 

“I hope she impressed you favorably, as you have to 
work with her. You must let me know if you decide to 
remain on permanently.” 

The artist looked curiously as he spoke at Vines’ 
blushing face, noting something new in its expression 
and a softer light in the nut-brown eyes. 

“She is a real plucky woman, sir,” answered the man 
warmly. “Not a scrap of fear in her, though she ain’t 
too strongly built. She was having a bit of a parley 
with Mrs. Benn on the road, and seeing as Sam’s mother 
was the worse for drink, the new lady gardener has 
made so bold as to bring ‘Benn’s brat’ back here to the 
cottage. Seems inclined to adopt him for the time being. 
I should say she has a rare fancy for children.” 

Arrow let his arm fall to his side, while his pipe 
drooped limply in his mouth. Could it be really true, 
that Mary had dared to import the dirtiest child in the 
village to Rutherwyke Place? Vines’ statement sounded 
definite enough, but then Vines might be under a wrong 
impression. The speaker read disbelief in his master’s 
eyes and repeated the words : 

“She’s brought Benn’s brat to the cottage here.” 

“The devil she has !” said Arrow. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE GABRIEL BELL 

M RS. VINES awaited her husband’s return in their 
little cottage a few yards away from the south 
lodge. Her young face wore a tired look. The lips 
were pinched and discontented, as if indeed they had for- 
gotten the pleasant habit of smiling or speaking kindly 
words. Her lusterless fair hair was drawn high off her 
forehead over a pad of a darker shade, revealing its 
presence at intervals through parted locks. Her dress, 
garnished by scraps of velvet and stray bows of ribbon, 
appeared lamentably pretentious, while several pieces of 
artificial jewelry proclaimed her fondness for cheap or- 
namentation. 

44 Well, Matthew,” she said as Vines appeared in the 
doorway, 44 what do you make of Miss Aquila? I have 
been trying to picture her arrival at Rutherwyke, and 
I can’t get used to the thought of you and the other 
men knuckling under to a woman — you especially, as 
looked to be first. When Monk left I made sure we 
should be given a lift up ; instead it seems the master has 
gone out of his way to kick us down and humble us be- 
fore our neighbors. My word, but it sets one’s blood 
boiling when I remember how hard you worked and all 
my efforts to get into Mrs. Penreath’s favor. It don’t 
seem no good trying.” 

Hettie’s small, sharp eyes glistened with vindictive 
40 


THE GABRIEL BELL 


41 


fire. She was of the money-loving kind, and but for her 
avaricious nature and eager desire to spend, Vines 
would have been glad enough to live on half his earn- 
ings and save the rest for the proverbial “rainy day.” 
Her discontent soured his life. Ambition ruled her every 
thought, darkening the home with its sinister influence. 
To Matthew’s sensitive nature his wife’s daily grumbling 
was an injurious element, eating into his soul, preying 
on his mind and robbing him of sleep. Often he felt as 
if her depression were placing him under a spell, drag- 
ging him down to evil depths of despondency, arresting 
all higher development, chaining him to paths of dark- 
ness. Now he came forward slowly and dropped into 
a chair, while Hettie watched him with her curious, 
searching eyes. For a moment he said nothing, but his 
calm expression puzzled her ; it was so much more peace- 
ful than usual, while the nervous facial movements she 
had frequently noticed since Monk’s departure were 
absent to-night. 

“I suppose the new gardener came right enough,” 
muttered Mrs. Vines, surprised he did not answer her 
previous remark. (The words were accompanied by a 
rattle of cups on a tray, giving cheerful promise of 
speedy refreshment.) “Women who push men out of 
their places take good care not to be ill or late at their 
posts; they would die sooner than make way for the 
male sex, who have wives and children to support. I’ve 
read of lady clerks in the papers ; a fine setback they are 
to honest men, taking lower wages and putting in longer 
hours. When it comes to other professions, such as gar- 
dening — well, you don’t know where the sly and crafty 
creatures are going to stop.” 

She laid a cloth upon the table, stained with the result 


42 


MARY 


of previous meals, putting it down impatiently as she 
marveled at her husband’s imperturbable manner. 

At last he spoke. 

“Miss Aquila is not so bad as I thought,” he vouch- 
safed, half grudgingly. “She is quite a lady, with a 
nice way of speaking and a kind — well, I may say a 
really beautiful smile.” 

The feminine hands, busily engaged, fell suddenly in 
a nerveless line with Hettie’s rigid body. Then she 
turned, as a quick tiger might, on the man, and laughed 
sarcastically in his face. 

“Oh! so that’s to be the way of it — start admiring 
her at once. I might have guessed as much ! But, mind 
you, I could be the one to cut up rusty, if things go too 
far. It is quite on the cards Mrs. Matthew Vines will 
have something to say to a real lady what takes wages 
and spends her days about among the flower-beds, with 
good-looking young men. Possibly you forgot to tell 
her you had a wife and family at home. Perhaps she 
won’t trouble to smile quite so much when she finds you 
are the father of twins and no good to any one but your 
lawful belongings.” 

Vines took no notice of the sharp words, he was too 
accustomed to Hettie’s tongue. He just leaned back in 
his chair, and because the memory amused him, re- 
counted graphically the scene in the village with Mrs. 
Benn and his master’s subsequent confusion at hearing 
“Benn’s brat” was at Rutherwyke Cottage. 

Hettie listened with a mollified air, which gradually 
developed into open satisfaction. 

“Strikes me she’s begun badly,” murmured Matthew’s 
better half with a chuckle as she cut thick slices of bread 
for the evening meal. “Mr. Penreath is not the sort to 
stand any cheek, and Miss Aquila will find that out in a 


THE GABRIEL BELL 


precious short time. Now I wouldn’t mind betting that 
before the year is over you will be in Monk’s shoes, top 
of everything. The way they’ve done up that cottage 
fairly makes my mouth water. It is all white as milk — 
good enough for a duchess, and wouldn’t it just suit 
Mrs. Matthew and the Masters Matthew, with a mail- 
cart painted white to match? I think I see myself there, 
cutting a dash with the twins in new frocks of stiff em- 
broidery and everything smart and fresh and clean.” 

The little pink tip of Hettie’s tongue shot through 
her lips, making a quick tour of their narrow surface. 
She smiled in anticipation of the pleasant thought, and 
her breast heaved, as if indeed the bet were already 
won, and the snowy walls sheltered the Vines family 
in a fair and beauteous setting. To her surprise 
Matthew sprang to his feet, drawing himself up to his 
full height, clenching his fists ferociously. He turned 
a pair of angry eyes on Hettie. 

“I don’t want to be in Monk’s shoes,” he cried, and 
the impetuous tone rang true. “I was glad from the 
first that I did not get his place. He had been turned 
away for stealing, remember, and it isn’t lucky to take 
on a thief’s berth. If I were up there in that cottage, 
I would be haunted by his face every night in my 
dreams, I’d feel under a curse. I thought of him to- 
day, as I stood near the door — you may call me soft, 
Hettie — but I thought of the tears I saw on his cheeks. 
Now the newcomer won’t know all he suffered in that 
house; it will seem bright enough to her. We are 
better away, better here in the smaller home, than 
yonder with the ghosts of painful memories.” 

Hettie stood with a kettle in one hand, and a teapot 
in the other, listening with a fair show of surprise. 


MARY 


Then she poured the steaming water on the tea-leaves, 
and laughed shortly before replying. 

“Can’t see why you should take on to pity a lying 
scoundrel like Monk. It isn’t your way to turn senti- 
mental. Maybe you’d drop a tear or two yourself, 
if you had cheated, and told untruths, and then been 
found out. He brought it on his own shoulders, and 
thoroughly deserved the sack. Though he swore he was 
innocent, we all know he just lied to the end. If he 
had owned up, I would have felt more sorry for him. 
As you’ve said again and again, there wasn’t a shade of 
doubt he was a blackguard.” 

Vines sank slowly back into the vacant chair. 

“Did I ever say that?” he asked, and his voice shook 
slightly. “Are you quite sure ?” 

Hettie shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 

“Of course you must remember. Why, we’ve talked 
it over time upon time, till I confess I am a bit sick of 
the subject. Why, you helped to prove his guilt. You 
must be wool-gathering this evening, Matthew, to be 
so dull and forgetful. By the way, I heard from a 
neighbor that Monk can’t get another place, somehow 
he don’t seem to have the heart to try, declares it is no 
good now his character is gone. All the courage has 
gone out of him; I suppose it is the sense of guilt and 
shame. He has saved a bit of money, and he said when 
that was gone, he would most like blow his brains out, as 
life held nothing more for him now. Of course, it is 
just high talking to get sympathy, and something may 
come along sooner than he thinks. Ain’t you going to 
drink your tea? No use worrying your head over a 
good-for-nothing fellow like Monk.” 

Vines slowly stirred the warm fluid, fixing his eyes 


THE GABRIEL BELL 45 

upon a row of spring flowers in the window-box. Their 
fragrance made him think of Mary. 

“A good-for-nothing fellow may be good for some- 
thing, even though you don’t think it possible,” he said 
thoughtfully. “Can’t you see, Hettie, the temptations 
a man might fall into — how he could drift toward crime 
without realizing what he was doing? Maybe he’d have 
an extravagant wife, always nagging him for cash, tell- 
ing him her dresses were a disgrace, and the kids wanted 
better clothes, jeering because he couldn’t give her the 
same luxuries as some togged-up friends of hers. It’s 
competition — competition what ruins you .women and 
sours your lives and the want to be grand that sends 
your husbands to hell.” 

His voice rose to quick, fierce tones, which startled 
Mrs. Vines into angry remonstrance and self- justifi- 
cation. 

“I don’t know who you are getting at, Matthew, but a 
dowdier woman than Mrs. Monk never existed, and as to 
nagging her husband, I will say she was a deal too kind 
to him. Besides, if you mean to insinuate I am extrava- 
gant, let me tell you that before my poor father lost 
his money I was accustomed to live in the style of those 
‘togged-up’ people you allude to so disrespectfully. 
You can’t be surprised if I’m a bit sore at being tied to 
a mere gardener, when, but for fancying a handsome 
face, I could have married a rich draper at Egham and 
kept my pony carriage.” 

Vines relapsed into silence. He had heard that tale 
so often when Hettie pressed him for money. Some- 
times he felt as if the rich draper took the form of an 
evil satyr, cursing their lives and casting a shadow 
which chased the brightness from the humble home they 
might otherwise have loved. It was the draper’s mythi- 


46 


MARY 


cal presence illuminating the past, which made everyday 
tasks appear bitter to the woman who remembered she 
might have had servants of her own in a trim flat above 
the Egham Emporium. 

“It’s my belief,” continued Hettie, returning after a 
pause to the subject of Mary, “that a lady gardener will 
make a fine muddle of Rutherwyke Place, especially if 
she is pretty. That sort never cares for hard work. 
Say, Matthew, were you just having a lark with me or 
has she — has she really a beautiful smile?” 

A note of keen anxiety rang through the words. 
Vines, smarting still from the painful allusion to the 
draper, seized this opportunity of revenge. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I used the word beautiful be- 
cause I could not think of a stronger expression at the 
moment ; perhaps I should have said — heavenly’, that is 
the better way to describe it — a heavenly smile.” 

Hettie chopped off the top of her egg viciously and 
muttered, “Pepper, please,” in a sepulchral voice. Vines 
could see she was seriously disturbed. 

“I used to think Mrs. Penreath had all the looks here,” 
he continued, “but Miss Aquila licks her into a ” 

He stopped short, for the sound of some one knocking 
gently on the door brought Hettie to her feet. As she 
rose to answer the summons, she turned back with a 
pursing out of her lips in Matthew’s direction. 

“I know the sort of hussy,” she whispered. “Oh! 
there will be trouble yet, you mark my words.” 

The tapping came again. This time it echoed 
through the cottage, seeming to demand the attention of 
the occupants. 

“All right, I’m coming.” 

Hettie straightened the flat red satin bow at her 
throat and turned the door handle, muttering to herself : 


THE GABRIEL BELL 47 

“Probably only a beggar. They are a perfect pest 
on this road, as if we had anything to spare !” 

A wonderful after-glow stained the sky a rich scarlet 
and the brilliant color made a vivid background to a 
figure in plain blue, standing erect upon the threshold, 
smiling. 

“Yes, you are right,” said a low, clear voice, “I have 
come to beg.” Hettie wondered how the speaker could 
possibly have heard the inaudible ejaculation. 

In a moment Hettie knew who the stranger must be. 
Had not Matthew called it “a heavenly smile”? 

As if sure of her welcome, Mary entered the humble 
abode, her eyes alighting gladly on the brave show of 
spring flowers. 

“What a sweet home!” she said. 

Hettie drew a chair forward. 

“Take a seat, miss; you look tired.” 

Mary thanked her, but remained standing. 

“I am sorry to disturb you at your tea, but I came 
to ask if you could spare just a few little garments for a 
poor child. It is too late to go to the shops, and Sam 
is in bed, wrapped up in one of my shawls. I have burned 
all his clothes. Of course, you must let me pay for 
anything I take ; the money will buy something new for 
your twin boys.” 

She addressed the words to Mrs. Vines, and Matthew 
thought the steady gaze must be looking deeply into his 
wife’s character, guided by the instinct he had feared 
earlier in the day. 

Hettie’s eyes sparkled. She loved new clothes and 
instantly saw her chance of striking a bargain. 

“Of course,” she said, “I wouldn’t let my children put 
on anything again that Sam Benn had worn.” 

Mary’s face was bright with happy thoughts, and in 


48 


MARY 


her tranquil expression it was easy to read the peace of 
a quiet soul. Softly she answered : 

“I don’t fancy you would say that if you could see 
him now.” 

Hettie felt unconvinced. 

“He was in a rare filthy state last time I saw him,” 
she declared, “and Matthew says the master swore 
when he heard you’d got Sam Benn at the cottage. 
Oh! yes, Mr. Penreath knows how to use strong lan- 
guage at times,” seeing Miss Aquila’s look of surprise. 
“I believe people who work for fame are never very 
sure of their tempers. Sometimes I think he must find 
it a bit of a strain being a celebrity and having to turn 
out fresh work year after year for the public to praise 
or pick holes in.” 

Matthew shuffled his feet uneasily and frowned at 
Hettie, annoyed that she should speak of Arrow Pen- 
reath’s displeasure. 

“That comes of telling you things,” he said. 
“Wouldn’t it be more to the point if you hurried up 
over them clothes instead of talking about your betters ? 
It’s no business of ours what the master says or thinks.” 

Hettie sniffed at the rebuke, tilted her chin in the air 
and turned to a door leading to a winding staircase. 

“May I come with you?” asked Mary. “I should 
love to see the twins. I suppose they are in bed.” 

Mrs. Vines appeared flattered, though she whispered 
cautiously: “You won’t wake them?” 

Matthew watched the two women disappear, noting 
that Hettie’s footfalls were heavy and made the old 
stairs creak, while Mary moved like a silent shadow, 
giving the commonplace surroundings an air of dis- 
tinction by the mere influence and beauty of her 
presence. He could not picture her ever indulging 


THE GABRIEL BELL 


49 


despondent thoughts or unkind feeling. The atmos- 
phere she created transformed the small house into a 
dwelling of delight, for the symmetrical figure appar- 
ently brought its own sunshine. Matthew recalled her 
brief comment of appreciation, when glancing round 
the flower-sweetened room, dwelling on the words with 
satisfaction, soothed and cheered by a sense of sym- 
pathy. 

Hettie went straight to a chest of drawers which held 
the boys’ clothes as she entered the low-roofed sleeping 
apartment, but Mary turned to the children in their 
comfortable cribs. They were lying with chubby arms 
flung out upon white sheets — one had his face crushed 
into the pillow, the other slept with head thrown back, 
half smiling, as though some happy dream made slumber 
rich. 

Mary bent down and whispered in his ear. Hettie’s 
back was turned and she heard no sound. Just for a 
moment he opened his eyes and pursed up his lips for a 
kiss. Then Mary held her hand over his forehead and 
he was instantly asleep again. 

“What wonderful twins, and only four years old,” 
said the visitor softly. “They are nearly as big as 
poor little Sam at six. I am sure I can make the clothes 
fit.” 

The child with his face in the pillow suddenly rolled 
over, rubbed his eyes and sat upright. 

“There, you’ve been and done it; I feared as much,” 
muttered Hettie. “He’s a terror to get to sleep. If I 
did not pack them both off right early, I should never 
be able to get Matthew his high tea by the time he comes 
home. They are just like quicksilver; you can’t keep 
them still.” 

Hettie bustled across to the child and laid him back 


50 


MARY 


with a firm hand, shaking her head and putting her 
finger to her lips to enjoin silence. 

“Mother,” he lisped, pointing at Mary, “angel — 
angel.” 

Hettie laughed, despite her previous annoyance. 

“Excuse me saying so, miss, but it’s your face has 
took the child’s fancy, and he thinks you are an angel. 
Mighty funny ideasThe kiddies get hold of at times, but 
that beats the lot. Now, Joey, if you don’t go to sleep 
at once, the angel won’t ever come and see you again.” 

The child obeyed so promptly that Hettie could 
hardly believe her eyes. She watched him with a grow- 
ing sense of amazement as he snuggled back into his 
usual position, murmuring: 

“Oh ! yes, she will,” in a tone of peaceful assurance. 

Mary moved to the 'little pile of clothes Hettie had 
spread on the floor. Quickly she selected a few suitable 
garments, knowing in a moment what she required, 
though the light was dim and the contents of the drawer 
were heaped untidily in a specially dark corner. 

“May I take these?” she asked, gathering them up 
contentedly and holding out a golden coin to the aston- 
ished Hettie. 

The woman stared at the money in open surprise. 

“Lor’ ! miss, a sovereign is too much. Matthew would 
say I had been robbing you. Those small things cost 
very little. I ran them up myself on the machine.” 

“A favor granted,” said Mary sweetly, “is worth so 
much more than gold that in reality it is a poor ex- 
change. You are helping me in an emergency and I 
am very grateful.” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Hettie acknowledged, her fingers 
itching to seize the coin, “if I thought you could afford 


THE GABRIEL BELL 


51 


it all right. But you are just working for your living 
same as Matthew, though you’re a lady sure enough.” 

Mrs. Vines grew red as she spoke, hoping her words 
would not give offense. 

“It is because I am working for my living that I can 
afford to pay,” answered the low voice, which failed to 
rouse the twins, so softly were the words spoken. “In 
a sense, we are all gardeners. If we want the flowers of 
life, we must sow the seeds and tend the soil. The best 
reward comes after labor, when the flowers bloom.” 

She placed the money into Hettie’s not unwilling 
palm, and as their hands touched a strange, overwhelm- 
ing sensation of mingled awe and wonder took posses- 
sion of Matthew’s wife. She trembled instinctively, and 
though her lips smiled, her eyes filled suddenly with 
tears, while vaguely she remembered her remarks about 
Mary, as if they had been uttered long ago. Though 
ignorant and uncultured, she felt Mary was no ordi- 
nary woman, realizing that the newcomer (resented, 
hated, abused but a few hours since) made the world 
feel purer, fairer, nobler by the light of a radiant and 
almost petrifying beauty. No artifices of fashion aided 
the unspoiled loveliness of that expressive face, no tricks 
of speech or gesture marred the open-hearted simplicity 
of Mary’s manner. A desire to make her linger — to 
keep her there — in the children’s chamber filled Hettie 
with restless energy. She sought about for an excuse 
to delay the guest’s departure. 

“Let me show you a few more things, you’ve not taken 
enough,” she gasped, darting across to another diminu- 
tive cupboard from which she drew some much-prized 
treasures. 

But Mary shook her head. The dying glow of the 
sunset crept into the room. 


52 


MARY 


“Not a bad view from this window,” added Hettie, 
opening the latticed panes. “Never saw the sky finer 
than this evening, and the light don’t seem to fade away 
so quickly as usual. Look, miss, the crimson and gold 
are still there, though it’s seven o’clock. Ain’t it a fine 
sight? Seems like a glimpse of heaven.” 

As she spoke a mellow bell chimed out rich peals of 
sound from the tower at Rutherwyke Place. 

“That always puzzles me,” said Hettie. “I can’t 
understand why they should ring three bells, then pause, 
and on again. Matthew says it all means a prayer to 
the Virgin Mary, and it is called the Gabriel bell. I 
have often thought I would like to hear some of the 
words it is supposed to say, seeing I know the sound so 
well, morning and evening, evening and morning, always 
at the same hour. The people outside think it is rung 
for the servants’ meals, but those who belong to the 
place are told that it means something holy, to please 
the master’s fancy, and so they listen for it with a dif- 
ferent ear.” 

“Yes,” murmured Mary, “with a different ear.” 

She echoed the words in a tone of pain. Her face 
looked suddenly drawn and haggard, yet its spiritual 
beauty remained unimpaired, the beauty of soul trium- 
phant over fatigue or ill health. She leaned against the 
window, looking out toward the spot from whence the 
music of the bell chimed its message of mystical mean- 
ing. Hettie waited for her to speak, watching the 
strange, concentrated expression of her eyes. 

“You would like to know some of the words,” she 
murmured. “Well, I suppose that is natural. Listen, 
but do not repeat them. The first bells say : 

“ ‘The angel of the Lord appeared unto Mary and 
she conceived by the Holy Ghost.’ ” 


THE GABRIEL BELL 


53 


The voice of the speaker sounded faint and far away, 
as the evening shadows wrapped her like a shroud. 
Hettie could see the shining eyes glowing in the pale 
face, only the eyes, all the rest seemed veiled mysteri- 
ously. Of course it was growing dark. Hettie told 
herself this was the cause of the uncanny visionary 
effect. 

“Any more?” she asked curiously. 

Mary bowed her head and continued in the same 
hushed tones. Apparently she spoke to the mild night 
air, to the first glimmering star in the clear blue beyond 
the dying amber, to the thread of a moon making its 
shy entrance at the heels of departed day. Hettie’s 
heart beat faster as she listened to the words: 

“ ‘Hail, Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee: 
blessed art thou among women and blessed be the fruit 
of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray 
for us sinners, both now and at the hour of death.’ ” 

Miss Aquila’s hands were pressed to her heart, for a 
moment she seemed struggling for breath. Her very 
lips were white and trembling, with a parched look, as 
if a fever robbed them of their rosy freshness. 

“Is that all?” whispered the woman at her side. 

Mary’s head sank low, bowed upon her breast. Her 
whole attitude grew humbled as she added : 

“The Virgin answers: ‘Behold the handmaiden of 
the Lord : be it unto me according to Thy word.’ ” 

Matthew’s voice from below called up through the 
shadows : 

“I say, Hettie, don’t forget you haven’t finished that 
egg, and your tea will be mighty strong by now.” 

His wife answered from the open wind: 

“Lor’ ! it clean escaped my memory. Miss Aquila and 


54 MARY 

I got talking. You might put some more water on to 
boil.” 

The interruption came like a rough descent from 
Paradise to earth. The two figures moved across the 
room, Mary’s footfalls still making no sound, despite 
the uncarpeted floor. 

“Very kind of you, miss, to trouble to tell me them 
things,” murmured Hettie. “When the Angelus tolls 
now, I shall think of you, and know what it all means.” 

A trembling hand was laid on Hettie’s shoulder, while 
the earnest eyes of the stranger gazed at her with sud- 
den entreaty. 

“Not of me — think of the Child — the Child that was 
born to Mary. If the bell brings Him to your mind, 
you will be far — far happier.” 

“By the way, it’s your name, I believe. Aren’t you 
Miss Mary Aquila?” As Hettie spoke her face grew 
eager with inquiry. 

“Yes.” 

“I always thought of it as rather a commonplace 
name, but since I met you there’s a difference somehow.” 

Hettie led the way downstairs. 

Mary went straight to the open door leading to the 
street. 

“Good-night,” she said, passing out with her bundle 
and bowing to Matthew, who was standing by the fire 
with a kettle in his hand. 

Hettie ran after her at a sign from the man and 
asked shyly: 

“He wants to know if he shall see you safe back to 
the cottage, miss?” 

Mary held out a grateful hand as she took her leave 
with a smile and shake of the well-poised head. 


THE GABRIEL BELL 55 

“Thank you for the kind suggestion, but I am not 
alone.” 

Hettie went back to her husband mystified. 

“I wonder who she’s got with her; there’s no one in 
sight.” 

They closed the door with happy faces. 

“It was worth having my tea spoiled to talk to her,” 
declared Mrs. Vines. 

“To say nothing of the money,” added Matthew, 
remembering his wife’s weakness. 

“Oh!” murmured Hettie with a start, “how strange, 
I had forgotten about that.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 

M ARY’S first evening at the cottage was not a 
lonely one. Her own thoughts, her rich fund 
of sympathy, those very instincts Vines feared, were 
living forces around her. Every moment of the day 
she was giving out the light and power of a personality 
few could understand. It cost her no effort, this free 
and willing gift. In less than an hour the new home 
became part of Mary herself, seeming to reflect the 
simplicity of the pure mind and radiant soul which 
dwelt within its walls. Sam, clean, well fed and deli- 
ciously drowsy, slumbered in an improvised bed, put 
deftly together by her skilful hands. He was no longer 
the same Sam the village people had pitied and yet 
shunned. Now his curly hair made a halo of gold about 
his head, after careful washing and brushing. With 
kindly treatment and the removal of dirt, an unexpected 
glow of physical beauty transformed the child into a 
little cherub of pink-and-white sweetness. Only when 
he had apparently fallen asleep and Mary stole softly 
to his side, the fact of a presence near him sent the small 
arm suddenly up to his shoulder in an attitude of de- 
fense, as if warding off a blow. 

“Poor little son of sorrow,” she murmured, “poor 
unloved waif, how badly you needed me!” 

She kissed the bright locks on the pillow and lowered 
56 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 57 

the defending arm with a mother-touch of true affec- 
tion. Sam half opened his eyes and smiled widely. 

“I thought,” he said, then paused to sigh — “I 
thought you were the Lion’s Claw.” 

Mary, drawing him closer to her breast, sang in a 
low sweet tone the words of an old lullaby, and the child 
drifted back into a land of dreams, peopled by women 
with soft musical voices, by flowers, butterflies and 
strange new houses of kindness and ease. 

For a time she watched him before drawing away her 
arm; then moving to the window, Mary pulled up the 
blind, that the young moon in its infancy and the twin- 
kling stars might shine upon Sam, keeping watch over 
his slumbers. 

“He won’t be frightened now if he wakes,” she said, 
drawing a long cloak about her shoulders and glancing 
back once more at the child’s peaceful face before pass- 
ing out into the mild night of soft breezes, playful 
shadows and uncertain lights. 

The garden was so still that even the falling of a leaf 
might be heard. Against the blue sky tall fir-trees 
made inky splashes, with a winding hedge of closely 
cropped holly glistened darkly on her right. She 
walked beneath its shadow until she reached the drive, 
then hastened toward the gates leading to Pilgrim’s 
Way. She easily remembered the nearest path to the 
village, for Vines pointed out a short cut used by those 
who were not nervous of lonely roads. Pedestrians by 
night were few and far between at Abbotts Brooke, and 
silence reigned over the deserted thoroughfares. Most 
of the cottagers retired early. When the sun set loafers 
wandered homeward or sought the shelter of the Lion’s 
Claw. As Mary neared the quiet homesteads she 


58 


MARY 


stretched out her hands as if in blessing — hands white 
like the moonbeams dancing in the hawthorn hedges. 

Lights glowed from distant windows, and she felt as 
if each told some story of life within — of sorrow or 
sure content, of malicious words or happy smiles. In 
one dwelling the empty cot made a heart barren. In 
another patient mother arms rocked a fretful child to 
unconscious forgetfulness of early woes. So the flick- 
ering candles shone out upon the night, guarding their 
secrets well — from all but Mary. Swiftly she walked, 
never pausing to recall the way, till she reached the 
door indicated by Sam when he remarked: “Mrs. Cray 
has gone to see her son off to heaven.” 

No trace of light in that house of mourning, save the 
glimmer from a street lamp exactly opposite the 
widow’s window. Possibly eyes which had wept for a 
dead son could not bear any stronger illumination than 
a ghostly reflection shooting pale streaks of faint radi- 
ance across her floor, revealing the outline of furniture 
grown familiar to the owner of the room. 

Mary knocked gently, yet her knocking held assur- 
ance as of one who meant to enter. To herself she said : 
“This sad house needs a friend — the Powers of Dark- 
ness are reigning within.” 

At first the still house gave forth no answer ; then, as 
Mary knocked again, somebody moved in the somber 
room. The closed window opened slowly and a muffled 
voice asked: 

“Who’s there? I can’t see anybody. Please go 
away.” 

Mary passed from the doorstep into the full glare of 
the street lamp which shone upon her face, illuminating 
the blue of her cloak and enveloping her whole figure 
in pale mysterious rays. The artificial light gave her 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 


59 


features an unearthly beauty and startling fragility. 
She looked like an ethereal visitant from some other 
planet, drawn to this threshold by the wail of a spirit in 
pain. 

The woman at the window was so completely in 
shadow that only the outline of her bent form could be 
dimly traced against the casement. She was holding 
one of the curtains, which trembled in her hand, cower- 
ing behind its folds as if in mortal dread. 

“Don’t you remember me?” asked Mary’s soft voice. 

The words were spoken clearly, demanding attention 
by their friendly intonation. Mrs. Cray peered into the 
night, shading her brow with her hand, drawing away 
from the temporary shelter of the dark red curtain. 

“I’ve seen you before,” she said in tremulous accents. 
“Yes, I’ve seen you to-day, I think.” 

The answer conveyed shy hesitation and caused the 
speaker physical effort. 

Mary drew nearer, with outstretched hand, to reas- 
sure the nervous woman in the window. 

“Yes, this afternoon. Just for a moment our eyes 
met. I wanted to come to you then, but I could not, 
there were so many people. Instead I decided we should 
meet at night when all would be quiet and we could talk 
together undisturbed. I am a friend. You are alone — 
let me in.” 

The widow drew back from the casement, and a 
moment later hurried fingers could be heard unlatching 
the door, which only opened an inch, as Mrs. Cray 
peeped out, afraid her senses were playing her false and 
that the unexpected visitor would have vanished into the 
shadows of the dimly lighted street. 

“Who are you?” she asked, almost angrily, her 


60 MARY 

broken accents shaking with a petrifying sense of ter- 
ror. “Who are you, I say? Why do you come here?” 

Mary answered in quick reassuring tones : 

“I called because I knew you were in sorrow, and I 
have suffered, too, so I can understand. By that suffer- 
ing we are sisters, only a sister is not usually left out- 
side. She has the right to be received — she expects a 
welcome.” 

Mrs. Cray’s fear vanished as she listened. Slowly 
she made way for the speaker to enter, still standing 
back in the dark. Without a word Mary crossed the 
threshold and placing a protecting arm about her 
shoulder, drew her into the dimly lighted room. The 
touch of the loving clasp brought courage to the 
woman’s breast. 

“I’ve seen no one,” stammered Mrs. Cray. “I set my 
face against it; I wouldn’t let them in. How could I? 
The people here, who knew my boy, all came out of 
curiosity just to look — I tell you it’s true, they only 
came to look, they are all alike. They take death as a 
show; they go where the dead lie. But I knew them of 
old, I closed the door, I wept alone.” 

Mary stroked the tired head as it fell unresistingly 
upon her shoulder, and the kind magnetic hand conveyed 
a supreme sense of power. 

“You shrank from their sympathy,” she murmured, 
“merely because you were too upset to realize that at 
heart they really sorrowed with you. I know this, for I 
heard them talking to-day as you drove by. Their 
words were full of kindness and praise for your son. 
They knew well all that he was to you, they spoke of his 
goodness to his mother and how terribly alone she must 
be without him.” 

Mrs. Cray looked up wonderingly into Mary’s face. 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 


61 


The street lamp still revealed the perfect features of 
this unknown friend, so spiritual, yet conveying much 
of the mind beneath, telling of high purpose and en- 
deavor made strong through suffering. 

“Have you lost a son?” she asked, quickly raising the 
stranger’s left hand. “Ah!” (finding the finger ring- 
less) “not married, and yet, young as you are, you have 
suffered. If your sufferings were worse than mine, tell 
me about them, and maybe, in some way, I shall take 
comfort by the hearing.” 

Mary drew the weary body to a chair, seeing how 
weak and wasted the mourner appeared after her silent 
days of vigil. 

“Sit down, Mrs. Cray, and I will kneel beside you. 
There, that’s better. Keep your head on my shoulder. 
See, I can hold you tightly in my arms, so that your 
sorrow shall be my sorrow, and we will share the burden 
together, just we two — who have both tasted loss.” 

Mrs. Cray obeyed, wiping away her streaming tears, 
which were falling on Mary’s cloak. Again she asked 
in a broken undertone: 

“Who are you?” 

Mary ignored the question, for, after all, it mattered 
so little. Had she not said she was a friend? Instead 
she spoke of the one who had gone, leaving the house 
desolate for the mother who loved him. 

“Your son,” she murmured, “died in bed, enveloped 
by your care, respected, regretted, honored in life, 
revered in death. If he asked for a cup of cold water, 
you were there to place it to his lips ; if he moved a 
muscle of his body, soft cushions made the moving 
easier. Is this not so?” 

Mrs. Cray nodded her head emphatically, clasping 
her hands as if in gratitude to an unseen Providence. 


62 


MARY 


“Nothing was denied him, thank God!” she muttered. 
“I gave him everything he wanted, no gentleman could 
have had more. Mr. James and some of the rich folk 
sent grapes, wine and flowers nearly every day toward 
the end. He loved the flowers best. At the last he 
talked to them as if they were people, fancying they 
breathed life into his body, and he described the most 
beautiful visions.” 

Mary turned her pale face to the mourner, and now 
it appeared so strangely sad that all the tragedy of 
earth — all the great history of suffering from the 
beginning of the world, seemed to lurk in the depths of 
those pain-fraught eyes. 

“The one I loved,” she said, “died out in the open — 
hungry, thirsty, tortured. No pillowed bed, no word 
of love, no earthly succor. During long hours, torn 
in the body, heavy in spirit — forsaken — facing death 
without fear, without complaint, thinking only of 
others, though racked with unspeakable agony. His 
death stands out as a great and priceless sacrifice.” 

Mary’s voice grew faint and low; it seemed to echo 
round the room like a silver bell. Suddenly the mourher 
in the house found herself soothing and supporting the 
stranger from the street, returning the embrace which 
drew them together in the bonds of a twin grief. Mrs. 
Cray spoke soothingly, as she stroked Mary’s hand, in 
an effort to bring comfort. 

“There! There! — poor creature, it was wrong of 
me to let you talk of it, but you see my own trouble 
made me selfish, that’s often the way, I fear. I expect 
it was your lover, since you are so well favored and 
still unwed. I can guess, too, how the brave lad met his 
death, most like out in South Africa at the time of the 
war. Some of our young men from Abbotts Brooke lay 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 


63 


suffering for hours on the field of battle, and those who 
lived to come home could tell rare tales of those terrible 
times.” 

Mary bowed her head. 

“You are right,” she said; “it was on the field of 
battle.” 

Mrs. Cray sought in her mind for suitable words of 
consolation, and this was the first effort she had made 
for others since her own loss. 

“But you must try and remember that his death won 
a victory, dearie,” she murmured, “a victory for a 
country any soldier might be proud of.” 

Mary’s beautiful face shone suddenly with a smile 
that even in the dim light cast its brilliancy upon the 
speaker. 

“Yes — and such a victory — a willing offering of self, 
without a murmur or regret. But you know it is not 
only the heroes of war that leave us glad and proud. 
We see the splendid martyrs of little homes, dying with 
heroic courage, and the mothers, who rise up to work, 
though their hearts break. You are only desolate be- 
cause this present cloud has blinded your eyes. If you 
would but look, there are children at your very door, a 
whole world full of children to mother and help. Per- 
haps you can give them nothing better than a smile, yet 
that smile sends a ray of sunshine straight from the 
soul, and the earth is a poor place without sunshine. It 
may cost you an effort, but the joy of the effort will 
help and sustain your fainting spirit, and the outpour- 
ing of your love is in reality the love your boy in 
heaven gives back to you for those who need it here on 
this earth.” 

As Mrs. Cray listened she touched Mary’s skirt, half 
wondering if she were awake, conscious that some unseen 


64 


MARY 


power gradually bore her away to new fields of thought, 
changing her mental condition to one of hope and 
courage. 

“I don’t know how it is, miss, but I feel as though I 
were dreaming. I wonder if you really are here at all, 
or whether I shall suddenly wake to find the outlook just 
as forlorn and drear as before you came to put fresh 
heart into me.” 

Mary smiled, and the gentle movement of her lips 
could only be seen dimly. 

“The light is rather mysterious,” she said, “but we 
shall meet again very soon. I am staying at Ruther- 
wyke Place. I have work to do there and at Abbotts 
Brooke. You must be tired from lying awake at night, 
so now please try and sleep, to revive all those weary 
faculties which still have many tasks before them.” 

The woman rubbed her eyes ; they certainly ached 
with the pain of ceaseless tears, yet she feared her lonely 
room above. 

“Yes, I am tired, but I can’t go to bed,” she declared. 
“The moment I get upstairs I am more wide awake 
than ever. I shall just lie on this sofa all night and 
watch the street lamp. At least it is something to look 
at till the dawn comes. Then I shall see the sky, and 
at times I fancy the clouds are angel forms, just as I 
did when a child.” 

Mary moved to the sofa and shook up the cushions 
invitingly. 

“Let me make you comfortable before I go,” she 
said, “and, if you like, I 'will stay until you fall asleep. 
Then I can slip out quite quietly, and though the door 
will be unlocked, no one is likely to disturb you. For- 
tunately for us poor people, we have nothing to fear 
like the rich, with their tempting possessions. They 


THE MOURNER IN THE HOUSE 


65 


must bolt their doors, and bar their windows, and even 
then they tremble at the faintest sound. I, for one, 
have never envied them their many responsibilities or the 
power money brings.” 

Mrs. Cray allowed herself to be led to the old-fash- 
ioned red rep couch, which Mary, with a few magic 
touches, made almost luxurious. 

“Now, lie down and close your eyes,” said the kindly 
voice, “and repeat to yourself : 4 I must sleep, I will 
sleep, because there is so much work to do in the morn- 
ing for my large family the world. 5 ” 

The woman obeyed, since Mary’s manner possessed 
a wealth of persuasion which paralyzed denial. It 
seemed as if the stranger focussed her mind with mes- 
meric force on Mrs. Cray’s excited brain and sleepless 
eyes. 

“I know,” murmured the widow, “that in the morning 
I shall find it was only a dream, and I shall never see you 
again. The waking is the worst part ; I sleep to forget, 
and the coming back is so cruel it almost kills me. I 
sometimes think it is God’s vengeance because” — she 
paused and drew a deep breath, then added dreamily — 
“because we crucified His Son.” 

The room was very silent and Mary made no sound, 
hardly appearing to breathe as she stood looking down 
upon exhausted human nature, her eyes moist with tears. 

Presently she loosened her cloak, and drawing it from 
her shoulders, spread the long garment over Mrs. 
Cray’s recumbent figure. Already the sufferer had tem- 
porarily escaped from her sorrow and lay wrapped in 
the mystery of sleep. 

“You will find the cloak in the morning,” Mary whis- 
pered, without rousing the unconscious form. “Then 


66 


MARY 


you will know it was not a dream. You will remember 
me and believe the evidence of your own sight.” 

She stretched out both her hands in an attitude of 
blessing, just as she had done when approaching the 
village. They were strangely fragile for the hands of 
a garden worker. Thus she remained for a few brief 
moments, her lips murmuring a prayer. As the clock 
struck ten she moved to the door, with slow backward 
steps, still keeping her eyes riveted upon the sofa, as if 
that lingering gaze induced the sleep so much required, 
persisting in a vigorous order of thought strong 
enough to influence the sleeper long after Mary re- 
turned to the White Cottage. 

Gently she raised the latch and passed, with the noise- 
less movement of a shadow, to the silent village beneath 
the stars. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE OTHER WALKER IN THE GARDEN 

£ * T CAN’T believe it is true,” said Mrs. Penreath. 

-S- “Surely Vines must have been mistaken. How 
could an absolute stranger import another person’s 
child to our cottage without asking permission? It 
hardly sounds likely, for Constance gave Miss Aquila 
such a very good character.” 

“Vines seemed pretty sure about it, anyhow,” de- 
clared Arrow, lighting a cigar. “Of course, it means 
we shall have that foul-mouthed, gin-sodden Mrs. Benn 
brawling in the garden to-morrow, to say nothing of 
the dirt her young hopeful will bring to the place, just 
as it has been thoroughly cleaned and done up in honor 
of the newcomer.” 

Mrs. Penreath sipped her after-dinner coffee with a 
thoughtful expression, nodding assent as she listened 
to her husband’s prophecy. 

“I do think,” she replied, “it was taking a great 
liberty. I can’t help feeling that for some reason or 
other Constance Eastlake must have become infatuated 
with this Mary Aquila and has perhaps spoiled her. I 
shall make it quite plain we cannot let Sam Benn remain. 
In fact, I have a great mind to walk to the cottage now, 
though I should not have wished to intrude the first eve- 
ning, but she has brought it on herself by her strange 
behavior. If you would come with me, I should quite 
67 


68 


MARY 


enjoy a stroll. You can wait outside, while I interview 
Mary and sift this matter to the bottom. I do not 
mean to stand any nonsense from her. I shall merely 
say that the child is to be taken back to his mother early 
to-morrow morning and never allowed in our grounds 
again. Why, it seems he was regularly kidnaped 
under Mrs. Benn’s eyes, while she protested loudly, quite 
a disgraceful scene! Surely the law could prevent a 
person detaining another woman’s child, even if the 
mother happens to be a drunkard?” 

Arrow laughed, for Vines had fully described the in- 
cident, even repeating some of Sam’s quaint remarks 
about the Lion’s Claw. 

“It evidently caused rather a sensation,” replied the 
artist, “but I suppose Miss Aquila is strong-minded, for 
apparently she had no intention of relinquishing Sam. 
You remember the Eastlakes said she was so fond of 
children. This is a bad start off with the much-praised 
protegee, of whom we expected such great things. But 
it must have been funny to see Vines and the woman he 
was prepared to hate, followed through Abbotts Brooke 
by Mrs. Benn shouting, ‘Stop thief !’ while Mary 
Aquila calmly walked off with young Sam, without leave 
or authority. Poor Vines blushed as he told me the 
story, though he spoke entirely in her favor and seemed 
to think her quite a heroine. She undoubtedly won him 
over at first sight. The pretty face, I suspect, was a 
strong weapon and made him forget his prejudice 
against lady gardeners.” 

Josephine put down a shell-like cup she was holding 
and touched the bell. 

“Take care, Arrow, that Mary doesn’t get round you. 
I should say you were far more susceptible than poor, 
hardworking Vines.” 


THE OTHER WALKER 


69 


He blew a smoke cloud into the air contemplatively, 
trying to picture Mary’s Madonna-like features and 
mysterious fascination. 

“Thank goodness ! I have a wife who is capable of 
protecting me against a dozen lady gardeners if occa- 
sion demanded. By the way, I think the Eastlake 
School of Gardening was at one time quite an amuse- 
ment to Max. I drew him out on the subject when he 
was here; his revelations proved rather amusing and 
might have surprised Constance. The students were 
pretty lively until Mary came, when suddenly the whole 
tone of the place altered, and they all went cracked over 
their work, so poor old Max retired from the gardens, 
somewhat disappointed. The general improvement 
made things dull for him, the good-looking idlers had 
changed into busy bees and no longer troubled to talk 
to the long-limbed motorist.” 

A servant appeared in answer to Mrs. Penreath’s 
summons and Josephine raised her hand ever so slightly 
to motion Arrow into silence. She had always mildly 
disapproved of Max Eastlake and his unconventional 
ideas. 

“Tell Wales to bring my boa and open the garden 
door if the shutters are closed.” 

She gave the order as her husband rose with a look 
of mild surprise that she really intended visiting Mary 
at this late hour. 

“Then you do mean to descend on Miss Aquila to- 
night?” he queried. “You really think Sam’s presence 
warrants an intrusion?” 

Josephine nodded assent, she had definitely made up 
her mind. “I think it may have a wholesome effect. I 
am not going from curiosity, but simply because I feel 
outraged at the thought of the uninvited guest con- 


70 


MARY 


taminating our cottage with dirt germs. I want also to 
see if Mary is mad, and to-morrow I shall write to 
Constance.” 

A stern note rang in Josephine’s voice and her lips 
hardened as they closed. 

It was quite a journey from the dining-room, through 
the library, to the garden door. Josephine held herself 
proudly as she made a tour of the long picturesque 
rooms which led to the far end of a square hall. 

In the distance the wide staircase, dimly lighted by 
shaded lamps, looked ghostly and imposing. Monster 
birds, carved at the foot of the banisters, formed silent 
sentries, keeping guard over beautiful old furniture and 
huge tapestry pictures framed in massive black oak. 

Mrs. Penreath was not robust and generally feared 
the evening air, seldom accompanying her husband, who, 
even on cold dark nights, often w T andered in the lonely 
garden to rest his brain after a long day’s work. Occa- 
sionally, when commencing a picture, he slept in his 
studio, close to the canvas, on an eastern divan, and 
during the night received inspiration from slumber on 
this unaccustomed bed, with windows set wide open and 
moonlight flooding the room. 

Fortunately Josephine paid no heed to the wildest 
eccentricities. “Genius,” she said, “was its own excuse,” 
and watched the development of her husband’s skill with 
absorbing interest, without ever seeking to hamper him 
by her own wishes or desires. 

As he opened the door for her to pass out she paused 
on the threshold with a little gasp of wonder. The night 
air blew upon her with a warm sweetness she had hardly 
expected in the uncertain month of May, bringing 
memories of fiery July, sinking beneath the sobering 
touch of evening. She thought instinctively of foreign 


THE OTHER WALKER 


71 


summers long ago, when first she met Arrow in a land 
of romance, where peasants moved like gods and women 
bore baskets of fruit on their heads with the stately 
carriage of queens. Those happy hours seemed 
strangely far away, called back across a vista of years 
by the soft seductive atmosphere. 

It was a strangely still night and distant echoes 
vibrated with startling clearness through the grounds. 
She fancied the garden was peopled by light-footed 
visitants from another world. Nothing looked material ; 
all the old familiar objects appeared etherealized and 
unreal, permeated by some spiritualizing element. She 
fancied the stars lay reflected on the paths and long 
stretches of shadow-lined lawn, bathing the grass in 
unearthly beauty, kissing the closed buds of sleeping 
flowers and scattering jewels everywhere. 

The thickly clothed trees in the Monk’s Walk shone 
with beams of light that darted in and out of their 
silvery foliage; every nook and corner appeared mys- 
teriously alive with the whispering spirit of the night. 

“Take my arm, Arrow,” she said. “The garden is 
too lonely and wonderful for mere human beings; it is 
so dreamlike, every moment I expect it to fade away. 
Don’t you feel as if we might meet a phantom proces- 
sion of monastic figures or hear them chanting as we 
pass the site where the chapel once stood? I could 
imagine all the old scenes materializing in this strangely 
clear atmosphere. It is a night to remember; it gives 
me back my youth.” 

She could not explain the sudden sense of happiness 
which possessed her, the renewal of girlish sensations, 
the glad beating of a heart quickened by some emotional 
energy. 

Arrow, too, felt surprised at the resplendent glory of 


72 


MARY 


the scene. He had noticed often enough a phosphores- 
cent glow peculiar to Rutherwyke, but to-night the 
charm of evening was intensified. The stars were in the 
grass and the moon was a goddess, sporting with shad- 
owy monks in the misty meshes of leaves. Even to 
Josephine, who knew it all so well, the garden became 
fantastic, visionary. The subtle enchantment of her 
surroundings held her spellbound. Her eyes sought 
Arrow’s suddenly with an almost roguish glance as if 
she, too, contemplated joining those elusive spirits in 
the shadowy landscape. Her steps were young and 
light, full of a new elasticity, buoyant and unhampered 
by any thought of age. She moved as gracefully as 
when she drifted like a snowflake up the aisle of a fash- 
ionable London church to be joined in wedlock to the 
rising young painter, whose pictures had already been 
praised and purchased by an appreciative public. Even 
then Arrow felt sure that in years to come Josephine’s 
special type of beauty would retain the charm which 
time appeared incapable of sapping. To-night she 
wore a dress of frail design and delicately colored trans- 
parency, a harmonious blending of deep violet and faint 
mauve. Arrow’s critical glance observed that her small 
satin shoes matched the shade of the gossamer gown, 
and a scent clung to her boa, borrowed from the 
fragrance of violet beds. The whole effect was so uni- 
formly pleasant and suggestive of refinement that it 
delighted him instinctively. 

He could not help feeling that perhaps it was just 
a little cruel of Josephine to burst upon Mary, the 
homely worker, gorgeous ’in fairy-like draperies, with 
neck bare and arms veiled only by diaphanous tulle. It 
would mark the difference between the woman toiling 
for a wage and the butterfly of fashion, able to nurse 


THE OTHER WALKER 


73 


her youth and enhance her beauty by lavish expenditure. 
But evidently Josephine guessed nothing of his thought 
nor felt a qualm of conscience as she hurried through 
the grounds of mystery and silver light. Once the hoot- 
ing of a brown owl overhead set her heart beating 
faster, and she leaned a little more heavily on Arrow, 
quickening her steps toward the cottage. 

“Though you look so fair and innocent,” he said, 
“you are just spoiling for a fight. Oh! I know you 
women !” 

Josephine still shivered at the recollection of the owl’s 
shrill cry, though her lips smiled. 

“Oh ! don’t, Arrow ; it sounds so horrid. Am I like 
that?” 

She raised her daintily penciled eyebrows. 

“Like what?” he queried. 

“Like the females described as ‘you women’? Why 
not say at once ‘you cats’?” 

He laughed softly, turning to her with a ready 
answer. 

“Well, have you not come out to scratch? Cats on 
moonlight nights generally take the opportunity of a 
little warfare. Mary has offended — remember, this is 
no errand of peace.” 

Josephine glanced nervously behind her, then traced 
their shadows with widely opened eyes and lips slightly 
parted as if in fear. 

“It seemed so easy to be angry in the dining-room,” 
she said, “but out here the night alters everything. 
On such a heavenly evening it makes one almost ashamed 
of any but happy thoughts. Still you know it w T as im- 
pertinent ” 

“Oh! it was.” 

“And she had no right ” 


74 


MARY 


“No right at all.” 

“Arrow, I believe you are making fun of me. If you 
go on like this, I shall never be able to show Mary how 
very unwisely she has behaved. You won’t laugh when 
you find Mrs. Benn prostrated in a drunken lethargy 
among your favorite flowers. It is absurd for us to be 
made fools of by a romantic moon!” 

“Or a romantic lady gardener, either. You are quite 
right, Josephine, Mary must be told that dirty children 
cannot be harbored at the White Cottage.” 

He tried to speak seriously, but the atmosphere of the 
garden sent strong appeals to the imagination, and 
Arrow knew that his voice spoke in direct contradiction 
to his heart. Strange that he had often walked at night 
through these same shaded groves and winding paths, 
without hearing the whispering voices of sprites and 
elves — without seeing angel faces in the moonbeams, 
smiling welcome, shedding their benediction from flower- 
bells or bending boughs. The change must be in him- 
self. Josephine would naturally feel much the same as 
usual, so Josephine should play moral policeman, while 
he remained outside, dreaming — in a garden of dreams. 

As they neared the cottage Josephine spoke again. 

“Do you see, Arrow, the door is open and there’s just 
one light burning, no more? She cannot be reading or 
writing, perhaps, like us, she is just enjoying the moon 
— and the poetical stillness.” 

Quickening her steps, the speaker reached the portal 
of Mary’s new home and knocked a trifle diffidently. 

Arrow hung back in the shadows and felt from habit 
for his pipe, which he fingered and forgot to smoke. 

Receiving no answ r er, Josephine pushed the door open 
and beckoned her husband. He advanced slowly, drawn 
by curiosity. 


THE OTHER WALKER 


75 


“Isn’t that sweet?” 

She whispered the words, pointing to an object in the 
room. 

Close by the open window two easy chairs, placed 
together, formed a bed, and asleep on a plentiful supply 
of pillows lay a golden-haired boy, with one small arm 
hanging out, bare to the elbow. 

“Look,” she continued, “look at the child with the 
infant Samuel face ! Who can it be? Not young Benn ; 
he was never beautiful.” 

Arrow drew nearer. 

“It is young Benn,” he answered shortly. “Don’t 
you realize, Josephine, this is Mary’s doing? She has 
rescued him to some purpose. She has waved her magic 
wand and transformed the dirtiest little devil into a 
veritable child-angel.” 

Josephine bent lower over the sleeping boy. She 
traced the delicate curve of his cheek, the milk-white 
neck, and the hair — all gold, in a flood of bright 
strands, swept out upon the pillow. She saw, with won- 
dering gaze, a triumph over what had been, a revelation 
of what could be. Fragrance filled the air, everything 
smelled fresh, wholesome, pure. The little hand moved 
and the nails shone clean as shells tossed up from the 
sea. The eyelids quivered, fringed by long lashes, the 
deep ebony of thunder clouds against the gold of sunset, 
hair of amber, lashes dark as night. “Benn’s brat,” 
glorified, resourceful from disfiguring dirt, to a cherub 
m a Raphael picture. 

“All alone,” murmured Josephine. “Where can 
Mary be?” 

Her voice, though low, apparently reached the child 
in dreamland. 

Sam moved and murmured softly: “Go on singing,” 


76 


MARY 


Arrow looked at his wife, and his eyes wore a tender 
expression. 

“It is long since you sang to Oliver,” he whispered, 
his thoughts traveling to their son at Cambridge, once 
a little fair-haired, dimpled boy, the only admirer who 
ever asked Josephine to sing twice. Though her speak- 
ing voice was musical enough, she had no ear for tune. 

Sam opened his eyes, gazing with mute astonishment 
at the vision in evening dress. It was so new, so mar- 
velous to see soft draperies, with flash of jewels on an 
uncovered neck, that he kicked off the bedclothes and sat 
upright, hugging a pair of pink knees, revealing rose- 
leaf toes, gleaming from their new alliance with soap- 
suds. Then suddenly taking courage, he snatched at a 
rope of pearls Josephine always wore and held them 
lovingly against his face. 

“What are they?” he asked, half afraid to question 
his mysterious visitor. “What are these little round 
balls, if you please? Did you get them at the toy shop 
in Egham?” 

The woman knelt down, that he might take a larger 
handful of the cool, pale treasure. 

“They come from the sea,” she whispered, “deep 
down where the mermaids live.” 

Sam looked puzzled. Now he pressed them to his lips, 
and a rapt expression made the baby eyes strangely 
attractive. 

“What is the sea?” he asked. 

Josephine sighed. At that age Oliver had paddled 
on many sunny stretches of sand and wallowed in the 
playful summer waves. She looked at her husband for 
an answer, feeling that he might explain that great rest- 
less element in which the pearls were born. 

“Arrow, what is the sea ?” 


THE OTHER WALKER 


77 . 

The artist stood back, conscious that Josephine and 
the boy made an exquisite picture, narrowing his eyes as 
he replied: 

“The sea is a voice drawing the rivers of the earth 
to her eternal orchestra. The sea is a monster which 
devours or a child who sleeps. Sometimes she is a 
woman, with heaving breast and eyes of blue, a mother, 
a queen — star-crowned, or a traitress, calling those 
who love her to death’s feast. She holds in her heart 
every emotion of life, torments and joys, loss, storms, 
sorrow, poetry, kisses, despair. She is a mausoleum and 
a playhouse, she is wild, she is still, she is false, she is 
true. She is God and the devil in one.” 

Josephine was settling Sam among the pillows, and 
already his eyes had closed again. He heard nothing of 
Arrow’s words, spoken low, merely for his own satisfac- 
tion and the ear of Josephine. 

“Poor child, he would not understand your definition,” 
she murmured. “Evidently Mary has felt the call of the 
night like ourselves and must be taking a stroll. Let us 
go back before she returns. She is welcome to the in- 
fant Samuel, if she keeps him sweet and clean. Only 
look at the gloss on his hair, just like spun silk.” 

Josephine bent down and kissed the slumbering face. 

“It would have been lonely for Mary on this her first 
evening but for Sam,” she added thoughtfully. “I am 
glad she has a companion.” 

Arrow picked up the boa fallen from his wife’s shoul- 
ders and wrapped it about her neck, noting the softened 
expression. 

“Yes,” he replied, “very lonely,” drawing Josephine 
away. “Come quickly, we don’t want to meet her now 
if the child is to remain. I should feel like an intruder, 
violating some sacred shrine. The cottage is Mary’s 


78 


MARY 


home, the boy — treasure-trove. What right have we to 
interfere?” 

Josephine passed out into the moonlight, glancing 
back at the perfect picture of innocent childhood in the 
white room, where the moonbeams strayed. 

For a moment she did not speak, perhaps her heart 
was too full, and she felt guilty at the remembrance of 
her previous displeasure. At last she said : 

“Mary must be a nice woman to have cared for Sam. 
There is an atmosphere about the place, Arrow, which 
makes me think I shall like her after all. Do you know 
what Constance said? She told me to think of her 
words when the Madonna lilies bloom. She said that 
Mary looked like the Virgin Mother herself — come to 
life.” 

Arrow never scoffed at a poetical fancy. 

“Mary has the mother instinct, judging by the trans- 
formation of ‘Benn’s brat’ to a pink and white cherub. 
She is a worker of miracles, for she has even broken 
down your prejudice, won you over without a word. 
The Madonna lilies never did well here. It remains to be 
seen if they bloom at all this year; Monk rather de- 
spaired of them. It is a pity the soil does not suit their 
peculiar temperament, for they are my favorite flowers. 
Nothing can beat the beautiful old white lily, which 
dates from the sixteenth century.” 

Josephine agreed. She, too, loved the regal purity 
and sacred association of the flower which suited the old- 
world garden of Rutherwyke to perfection. She pic- 
tured the wide lily borders which in scarcity of bloom so 
often disappointed their expectations. 

“Perhaps Mary will be more successful than Monk, 
though he certainly tried hard,” she murmured, willing 
to give him his due. “He grew them in rich prepared 


THE OTHER WALKER 


79 


ground and in natural soil. He knew they were very 
near your heart, and I must say, with all his subsequent 
faults, he always studied your tastes ; he did his utmost 
for the garden.” 

Arrow agreed, for her words were undoubtedly just, 
though he still smarted under the memory of the man’s 
dishonest dealing. 

“Rogues and vagabonds frequently have ingratiating 
manners and appear exemplary characters until they 
are found out,” he added, harping back to the old griev- 
ance. “Why, it seems almost sacrilegious to expect that 
Monk could succeed with Madonna lilies. To me they 
are flowers with a soul and a special history of their own. 
Did you know they were first imported when St. Mary 
was no longer venerated in England?” 

As he spoke a faint footfall could be heard in the 
adjoining pathway, but a hedge of holly divided Arrow 
and his wife from the other walker in the garden. 

“Hush!” whispered Josephine, hurrying toward the 
house and not daring to look back. 

“It must have been Mary,” said the artist, with a sud- 
den desire to see the newcomer. 

Josephine took his arm again and leaned upon it 
weakly. 

“Mary — or somebody else. You forget, spirits are 
abroad to-night.” 

A faint mist crept across the lawn, a mist which 
blotted out the silver moonshine and made ghostly 
tracks down the Monk’s Walk. Lights from the house 
gleamed warmly through welcoming windows. Jose- 
phine thought of her easy chair and the novel she had 
meant to read that evening. 

“I shall be glad to get in now,” she said. “It is 
turning cold.” She did not know at that very moment 


80 


MARY 


Mary was closing the cottage door, leaving the garden 
lonely, leaving the garden wrapped in a sea of vapor. 

Sam felt she had returned without opening his eyes, 
though she made no sound. He just murmured “Sing 
again” — and Mary sang. But her eyes were sad as 
she thought of the bereaved woman asleep beneath her 
cloak. She heard the shrill cry of the brown owl and 
saw the pale face of the mist through her window. But 
Sam only heard, as he believed, the distant voice of an 
angel visitant singing in the spheres. Far away the 
curses of the woman who called him “son” — far away 
the Lion’s Claw ! Mary was his mother now, the White 
Cottage his home. Beautiful women who smiled made 
up the kingdom of his childish dreams. 

“Sing again — again — again,” he whispered drowsily, 
and the song changed to a kiss and the kiss to a longing 
sigh. Then all was still, save the soft ticking of the 
clock as Mary moved away, shading the candle with her 
hand. 


CHAPTER VII 


PASSION FLOWERS 

T HE ringing of the Gabriel bell woke Arrow Pen- 
reath early the following morning. He listened 
to its persistent note with keenly appreciative ears. Its 
deep tone held music and song, heralding the day with 
sacred thoughts, the Angelus of old England, a prayer, 
a veneration, pleasing his fancy, and soothing, while it 
roused. It had become part of Rutherwyke, a sound so 
familiar that it made home. The bell’s voice was a 
friend, a companion, and he loved to dwell on its ancient 
origin, to tell of its baptism, when long ago, for the 
service of the Church, it had been anointed with holy 
oil. It recalled the monastic associations redolent of the 
soil upon which Rutherwyke was built. 

Arrow was just in the throes of conceiving a new, 
allegorical picture; the planning of the scheme made 
him wakeful, restless, impatient. Yesterday he had sent 
for Vines at breakfast to ask if there were any passion 
flowers out in the conservatories, as he wanted them for 
his work, only to hear the buds were not worth picking 
and would not open for some days. 

This morning the artist resolved to look for himself. 
It angered him that Nature should thwart his desire, 
and he could not help thinking perhaps jealousy of 
Monk made Vines belittle the vast quantity of bloom, 
both under glass and out in the grounds. Dressing 
81 


82 


MARY 


quickly near the open window, Arrow realized the gar- 
den of sunbeams called with even greater attraction than 
the night before, though its beauty was less subtle, 
more of earth, and proud vigorous growth. Now it 
cried to his artist’s soul with the radiant sparkle of 
waking light and the glory of morning resurrection. 
The dew-drenched flowers stood up, rejuvenated by their 
fragrant bath, while birds clamored boisterously for the 
joys of life and the slaughter of insect existence. 
Around the climbing roses reaching to his casement 
hum of tiny winged creatures and persistent drone of 
bee contrasted strangely with the ghostly stillness of 
the previous evening. 

He was glad to go out fasting into the garden, for 
slight hunger sharpened his senses and brought him 
nearer to the world which knew not the language of 
words, but expressed its being in song and sound. He 
felt in sympathy with the virgin freshness of the new- 
born day, over which birds noisily rejoiced as if indeed 
they had only just come into their summer kingdom. 

He had not thought of Mary Aquila as he wended his 
way to the long stretch of glass where forced and shel- 
tered flowers grew. He liked to believe flowers were liv- 
ing personalities, and he always experienced a sensation 
of pity for hothouse blossoms. To come into existence, 
without ever meeting the kiss of the wind or the dews 
of night, without seeing the dawn break, without know- 
ing the free skies and open air, this was the fate of the 
exotic, forced by the will of man. He opened the door 
of the conservatory where the purple passion flowers 
made their home, and as he did so a gentle figure, 
gowned simply in a robe of deep rich blue, turned to him 
and smiled good-morning. Just for a moment Arrow 
spoke no word. Mary’s beauty was so spirituelle that it 


PASSION FLOWERS 


83 


took away his breath and held him dumb with overpow- 
ering admiration. He experienced the startled sensation 
he would have expected to feel in the presence of an 
unearthly visitant suddenly materializing before the 
wondering gaze of mortal eyes. He fancied he saw 
around her the filmy vapor of a cloud and a faint yet 
unmistakable blue light. He put his hand to his fore- 
head, as if to collect his scattered senses. For a moment 
he could not speak, only he noticed that the passion 
flowers, which slumbered yesterday, were well awake this 
morning. 

Full open leaves bloomed around Mary in purple 
profusion, as if her presence endowed them with mys- 
terious strength; even the weakly plants gave forth an 
offering of prodigal blossom. Apparently she read his 
thoughts and knew the reason of his coming. 

“You want the passion flowers,” she said. “See, they 
are ready for you.” Then in explanation of her knowl- 
edge added quickly, “Vines told me you would require 
some for a picture as soon as possible.” 

Arrow drew a step nearer. Her voice puzzled him 
even more than the Madonna-like beauty he had ex- 
pected. Something in its rich, yet well modulated ful- 
ness made him think of the Gabriel bell ringing its “Hail 
Mary !” to the distant village, ignorant of the message 
the chimes proclaimed. 

He forgot they were strangers, forgot that possibly 
she might expect some conventional questions, and turn- 
ing to the flowers, gazed at them reverently. 

“I can’t help thinking they have come out for you,” 
he said. “Surely it is right and fit that passion flowers 
should bloom for Mary.” 

Already he was criticizing her beauty favorably, say- 


8 4s 


MARY 


ing in his heart that undoubtedly the new lady gardener 
must be converted into a model. 

He watched her stoop toward the flowers and gaze 
into their open faces, tracing each strange and delicate 
petal, reading perchance the story they told of “agony 
and bloody sweat.” He felt sure she was dwelling on 
the mystery of the Passion from the rapt expression in 
her eyes. 

“You know what it all means,” said Arrow, speaking 
low. “The leaves represent the spear, the tendrils the 
cords with which our Lord was scourged, and the ten 
petals are the ten Apostles who deserted Him.” 

Mary bent lower over the climbing plant, which 
mounted to the roof of the conservatory. Tenderly she 
touched the central pillar of the flower that told of pain. 

“This,” she murmured, “is the Cross.” 

Arrow fancied her voice sounded far away, like the 
Angelus heard across space in distant hills and hidden 
vales. 

“Yes” — he plucked a full-blown specimen as he spoke, 
holding it to the light. “The stamens are the hammers, 
the styles the nails and the inner circles round the center 
the crown of thorns. We have some white passion flow- 
ers in the other house ; the white hue is typical of inno- 
cence, but the blue shade, which I prefer, is a symbol of 
heaven. I dare say you know the passion flower only 
remains open for three days and then dies, but this is 
said to represent the death, burial and resurrection of 
the crucified One.” 

Mary turned her face away, but not before Arrow 
noticed her peculiarly sensitive mouth, with the little 
tremble at the corners and the look in her eyes which 
baffled even his quick intelligence. 

“Every flower,” she said, “has some story written 


PASSION FLOWERS 


85 


in its petals, only they are not so easily read. One must 
know them well to divine their secrets. I have lived 
among them long enough perhaps to see more than the 
casual passer-by. The passion flower speaks of cruel 
torture and is transparent in its meaning, but the others 
tell of resurrection. They are all symbols of heaven, 
whatever their color or shape.” 

Arrow listened attentively. It was not so much her 
ideas which arrested his interest as the simplicity of her 
manner, amazing in one so beautiful. Could she pos- 
sibly be unaware of Nature’s dazzling gift? 

“I hope you like Rutherwyke,” he said, plain con- 
ventional words, yet spoken with a depth of sincerity 
and meaning. He really wanted her to appreciate the 
home he loved and the garden, which meant so much to 
him in leisure hours, when his tired working brain needed 
mental refreshment and a calm, still scene. 

Mary did not reply at once, but continued her work 
in the conservatory, which his entrance had momentarily 
suspended. Then, as if bracing herself to an effort, she 
answered candidly : 

“I do not like the Gabriel bell.” 

The reply fell like lead upon his ear. 

Here was a woman with the face of a Madonna, here 
was “Mary,” the namesake of the Virgin Mother, actu- 
ally saying in her calm, clear tones : “I do not like the 
Gabriel bell.” 

The unexpected announcement came with a sense of 
shock and disappointment. For a moment his illusions 
were rudely shattered. 

She could see the cloud which rose upon his brow, 
darkening eyes usually so bright and observant with 
just sufficient sparkle to indicate their owner’s apprecia- 
tion of life’s humorous side. Now they were grave and 


86 


MARY 


openly reproachful as they returned Mary’s steady 
look. 

“I wonder,” he said, “why it does not appeal to you? 
At first sight I summed you up as having a soul above 
the commonplace. I could have sworn that the ringing 
of the Angelus would meet with your approval. I am 
not often mistaken in my hastily formed impressions 
and should be curious to hear your reason for disliking 
the bell.” 

Mary paid no heed to the injured tone which crept 
into his retort. Arrow had grown accustomed to lauda- 
tion and the praise of a celebrity-worshiping world. 
Kis success gave him the close friendship and attentive 
ear of men and women in high social positions. He was 
intimate, through his genius, with royal patrons, who 
felt honored to welcome him as their guest. In his own 
heart Arrow Penreath, with his outwardly easy manner, 
his pipe and his genial smile, was a little god unto him- 
self. Not even his wife, living at his side, watching him 
daily with the keen eyes of affection, knew the pinnacle 
upon which he placed his own brain and imagination. 
At times he would amuse himself by descending to the 
level of some very ordinary mortal, talking of mundane 
matters as if they formed the limit of his horizon, tell- 
ing himself it was a rest, an act of charity, a soothing 
antidote to his usual brilliancy. In this hidden act of 
condescension he touched the high-water mark of secret 
pride. 

Now he waited for Mary to give some explanation. 
Seeing she could not escape the direct question, she 
caught her breath in a half-stifled sigh and spoke with 
quick emphasis, meeting his gaze fully. 

“The Angelus,” she said, “has always been rung by 
man to venerate the one woman who would most keenly 


PASSION FLOWERS 


87 


have desired to escape veneration. The Virgin Mary 
wanted no prominence in her life, she sought no praise, 
but dwelt in humble retirement, only looking from afar 
at the greatness of her Lord. The very thought of 
being held up as an object of worship would have tor- 
mented her quiet, retiring spirit, possibly even disturb- 
ing (if such things could be) her eternal rest. Was she 
not content to sit apart in silence, offering no word for 
the ages which were to come, willing that history should 
be written in which she is but the simple handmaid of the 
Lord? Did she not, after becoming the instrument of 
Divine Power, wed with Joseph and live as his wife, 
bearing him children? If future generations through- 
out the centuries were intended to fall down and pray to 
her as a glorified saint, placing her on a pinnacle with 
God and the Redeemer, would not her Son during His 
ministry, on His Cross, or after He rose from the 
tomb, have told His disciples to come to Him through 
Mary, to hail her as an object of devotion? But He 
alone could read all the simplicity of her heart. He saw 
her, knew her, loved her as she was, the Maid who laid 
her Baby in a manger because there was no room for 
them in the inn. During those days in a poor man’s 
house Joseph’s wife could never dream that her image 
would rank with the Cross itself, that the world would 
set her up as an idol, falling at her feet in adoration and 
prayer. She was contented to be just ‘woman.’ She 
asked for nothing more. So now, you see, it is merely 
out of pity for her that I do not like the Gabriel bell.” 

If the stranger’s words astonished Arrow, her face, 
as she spoke, revealed such real emotion that it filled 
him with even greater amazement. Her lips were merely 
framing the thought which lighted her eyes with 
strange, almost uncann} r , radiance. Her expression 


88 


MARY 


varied from humility to a certain righteous anger, but 
for the holy fires in that unfathomable gaze. It was the 
face of an outraged saint, smarting beneath injury. 
The fancy she expressed came as no mere casual reply 
to Arrow’s question ; it was the following up of an idea 
which must have grown and formed in her mind long 
before this early morning meeting with the master of 
Rutherwyke. Partly because the subject interested him 
and partly because he liked to watch the coming and 
going of Mary’s color and the vital expression of her 
features, he continued the conversation, with his glance 
riveted upon the blue gowned figure. 

“Personally,” he said, “I find the whole idea of the 
devotion to our Lady is full of beauty and romance. A 
modern writer has said : ‘The worship of the Mother of 
God rose upon the Church like the moon rising into a 
sky already studded with stars, which from henceforth, 
though still bright and visible, became as nothing com- 
pared with the greater and more splendid luminary.’ 
That ‘splendid luminary’ has been shining on the world 
ever since the early Christians did not scruple to ask the 
aid of the gracious Mother. I have studied the history 
of its progress pretty closely, and it has always held 
for me an irresistible fascination. The first regular 
office of the Blessed Virgin was used daily by the Bene- 
dictines of Monte Casino in the ninth century. I can 
lend you my books of reference on the subject. You can 
trace the worship down an unbroken line of years ; it 
clings fast, it came to stay. All services to our Lady 
are pre-eminently joyful, and the most homely of the 
old English devotions were the Five Wounds of our 
Lord and the Five Joys of our Blessed Lady. These, 
however, accumulate into various and numerous joys, 
which dazzle the brain with a medley of poetical repeti- 


PASSION FLOWERS 


89 


tion. Her Seven Heavenly Joys, her Twelve Joys and 
her Fifteen Joys. Lansperg composed a Rosary of the 
Fifty Joys of our Lady. So, you see, it was a popular 
devotion, and she, who you say is contented to be ‘just 
woman,’ reigns with undying sway in the hearts of her 
devotees.” 

Arrow reeled out his information with an inward 
sense of cruelty. He wondered why he liked to hurt this 
beautiful woman, to bring pain to her face and a depre- 
cating expression to those extraordinarily speaking 
eyes. Possibly the artist in him, seeking copy, placed 
her on the rack, that he might indulge his talent by the 
vision of her suffering. He wished he could have caught 
upon canvas all those eyes were saying, as he talked 
quickly, with the flow of conversation natural to him. 

Mary placed one hand on the stem of a passion flower, 
but her fingers remained motionless, and the flower ap- 
peared so still, it seemed impossible a human touch could 
rest upon it, however light the pressure. She was look- 
ing down into the heart of the bloom wistfully, as if to 
read some secret in its purple chalice. At last she said 
with a little catch in her throat : 

“Tell me some of the Joys, if you can remember 
them.” 

Her words held more of command than request. They 
thrilled Arrow strangely, for indeed the music of the 
Gabriel bell lurked in Mary’s voice with a vigorous note 
of appeal and mastery. He could not refuse the re- 
quest, though he felt somewhat ashamed of his merciless 
attitude. 

“Yes, I will tell you,” he answered, aware that this 
woman was in some subtle way drawing him out, making 
him for once less conscious of his own individuality. It 
was new to Arrow to meet a spirit — feminine — quiet, 


90 


MARY 


sweet, yet strong, which baffled the ego in himself. 
Mary’s voice, while it expressed conflicting views, moved 
him, not as other women’s voices, but with a strange 
sense of passionless admiration and almost reverential 
wonder. When he said, “I will tell you,” her hand fell 
to her side, and as it fell the passion flower drooped with 
sorrow at the loss of the light caressing touch. “The 
Seven Heavenly Joys,” he murmured, looking beyond 
her to the pale morning sunlight playing among the 
fern leaves, “are these : 

“Our Lady’s surpassing glory. 

“Her brightness, which lights the whole Court of 
Heaven. 

“All the host of heaven obeys and honors her. 

“Her Divine Son and she herself have but one will. 

“God rewards at her pleasure all her clients both here 
and hereafter. 

“She sits next to the Most Holy Trinity and her body 
is glorified. 

“Her certainty that these joys will last forever.” 

Arrow marked off each joy on his outstretched 
fingers. He fancied they were seven stabs to the one 
who listened, believing so firmly that the Maid, to whom 
Gabriel brought a revelation of miraculous motherhood, 
would bitterly have condemned the adoration laid at her 
shrine. 

Mary Aquila stood with lips parted in unspoken 
protest. He could see by the very attitude of her figure 
and the appealing position of expressive hands how 
much his recitation distressed her. 

Arrow drew a step nearer. Just for a moment he 
half feared she might fade before his eyes and that he 
would awake to find himself asleep over the studio fire. 
Mary’s strangely ethereal presence often imparted this 


PASSION FLOWERS 91 

dreamlike sensation to those who saw her for the first 
time. 

“The Seven Heavenly Joys,” he continued in the same 
triumphant tone, conquering the sympathy his heart 
was in danger of giving, “are associated with the mem- 
ory of St. Thomas of Canterbury. Our Lady herself 
revealed this devotion to him, and subsequently he com- 
posed the hymn : 

‘Gaude flore Virginali 
Quae honore principali 
Transcendis splendiferum.’ 

“One of the great windows of Canterbury Cathedral, 
destroyed at the time of the Commonwealth, repre- 
sented the Seven Joys, with the ‘Blissful Martyr’ and 
the patron saints of England. The influence, you know, 
of the Virgin’s name also extends to plants and flowers. 
The blue forget-me-not in France is called ‘les yeux de 
notre Dame.’ We grow them here by the lake, and even 
Monk, our late gardener, knew them as ‘the eyes of our 
Lady.’ ” 

Arrow plucked a piece of maidenhair fern and laid 
it lovingly against his cheek. “This,” he continued, 
“is said to have been previously named ‘our Lady’s hair’ ; 
and even the common yellow buttercup was once ‘our 
Lady’s bowl.’ I can mention a plant which you may 
never have heard of in all your gardening experience, 
Bokhur Miriam, ‘the perfume of Mary.’ The Persians 
call it Tchenk Miriam and Pencheh Miriam, ‘the hand of 
Mary.’ They say that our Lady, having laid her hand 
on this plant, left upon it the form of her five fingers, 
and immediately it gave forth a most delightful fra- 
grance. The Arabs call it Arthanita, but in France it 


92 


MARY 


is named ‘the gloves of our Lady.’ She has also been 
likened to a rose in very poetical language: ‘Rose of 
most transcendent beauty, that most fragrant Rose, 
to whom flew the Heavenly Bee, who feeds among 
lilies and dwells in the flower-bearing country of the 
angels, on whom He settled, to whom He clove .’ 99 

Arrow loved to show in speech his possession of a 
retentive memory. He could quote freely and without 
effort from the reading of years. Words were photo- 
graphed in his mind like pictures; for him they held 
color and light. They were living, forceful companions, 
friends of solitary hours, breeders of inspiration for his 
brush. A line quoted was often the forerunner of a 
famous picture. Frequently he saw a whole scene in a 
phrase, printed before his mind’s eye on the pages of a 
mythical Academy catalogue. The words would lead 
him to the bare canvas, which he clothed — on the 
strength of a poet’s rhyme. He thought now that “the 
flower-bearing country of the angels” materialized into 
a wondrous painting with the Rose and the Heavenly 
Bee as symbols of Divinity. 

He momentarily forgot that Mary was not in sym- 
pathy with his mood, having escaped from her opposing 
thoughts in the pleasurable act of airing his knowledge. 
Now she continued her task among the plants and sud- 
denly he asked himself: Had she listened? Was she 
offended? Perhaps he was treading her prejudices too 
roughly under foot. Surely Mary could not have for- 
gotten his presence, turning a deaf ear to words that 
only caused her pain? No, he saw by the flush on her 
cheek, as she bent to the flowers, that she had heard and 
suffered in the hearing. A wave of penitence swept over 
him ; he longed to know what was passing in her mind. 

“I wish,” he said, “you would tell me your thoughts. 


PASSION FLOWERS 


93 


I am sorry if I wounded you. I did not mean to really 
hurt your feelings. It is unwise for people who are 
likely to meet often to discuss subjects on which they 
differ, especially at first sight, and religious subjects 
are the most dangerous of all. But you brought it on 
yourself by disapproving of the Gabriel bell. I am very 
loyal to my favorite and the bell holds a special charm 
for me.” 

He began picking the passion flowers ruthlessly, tear- 
ing them down just as the fancy seized him. He wanted 
to make a rough sketch that morning to be transferred 
later to a larger canvas, and a sense of joy possessed 
him that they were ready for his studio. 

Mary paused in her work, meeting his glance fully, so 
that now he could see again the amazing light in those 
wonderful eyes, set like lamps in the perfectly modeled 
face. At last she spoke: 

“I knew all you told me, and oh ! so much more,” she 
murmured softly. “I want no books to remind me of 
those many devotions you spoke of. The Virgin Mother 
has been called ‘the gate of heaven,’ and men have said 
none may come to the Friend of sinners but by — Mary. 
The}' pray to her to loose their bonds and set them free. 
They implore her to be a Mother to God and to wretches 
and to show motherly tenderness to all in need. They 
forget the Son said: ‘I am the Way,’ that He never 
pointed to a mediator. She was chosen by God for a 
holy task, because the Almighty regarded her lowliness. 
Through humility and meekness she gained that supreme 
honor and was selected to be the Mother of the Lord. 
Was it not enough that she, a creature, brought forth 
her Maker? She, His servant, took a parent’s position 
and ruled His young years? She sought no further 
greatness, was offered none. Her cup of gladness filled 


94i 


MARY 


to the brim when she held heaven in her arms. But 
earth claimed her too, and she became just the humble 
wife of Joseph. You, who pray to her, who rend her 
heart and outrage her simplicity, remember this, try to 
look higher — have pity on Joseph’s wife!” 

Had Mary Aquila been pleading for herself, she could 
not have spoken with greater feeling. The solemnity 
of her words was interrupted by the breakfast gong 
sounding in the garden. It came as a rude upheaval, 
it broke with its gross insistent call upon sacred 
thoughts, bringing Arrow sharply back to the world 
and the flesh. He gathered his sprays of passion flower 
together in both hands, conscious that the early morning 
air and vigorous argument had rewarded him with a 
healthy appetite. 

“We will finish our discussion another time, for my 
wife is very punctual at meals and dislikes to be kept 
waiting,” he said, his thoughts turning to steaming hot 
coffee and well-fried bacon. “I have enjoyed our ex- 
change of opinions and must thank you for giving me 
your ideas. Believe me, I shall not forget them.” 

He looked back as he passed through the door, he 
looked back as he crossed the lawn and marveled at 
Mary’s strong personality as he glanced again at the 
armful of passion flowers torn from the conservatory 
walls with intentional carelessness. He wanted to try 
the newcomer, to see if she uttered a protest or betrayed 
horror at his action. He knew under similar circum- 
stances Monk’s face would have been a study in disap- 
proval and that finally he would have implored him to 
desist. But this woman showed no sign of observing 
Arrow’s harsh treatment of the climbing plant. He 
wondered if her silence arose from indifference or re- 
spect. Perhaps she cared little — perhaps she cared 


PASSION FLOWERS 


05 


much. He felt quite unable to hazard an opinion. It 
was also strange that her duties as head of the Ruther- 
wyke gardens had not been mentioned, while instead they 
discussed a deep subject of controversy, one of undying 
contention, with the heat and fervor of long-established 
friendship. 

As he neared the house, walking pensively through 
the dewy grass, Mary’s words re-echoed in his brain, 
chiming like the Gabriel bell — just five words — spoken 
slowly, softly and with fervor: 

“Have pity on Joseph’s wife.” 

Her argument brought a new line of thought to his 
mind which suddenly controlled him with a strong per- 
sonal influence, as if a woman’s musical voice still whis- 
pered in his ear. He pictured the humble origin, the 
humble life, the humble heart of the Virgin Mary, desir- 
ing no weight of glory, seeking no queenship, set up as 
a divine image, a saintly mediator, disturbed in her 
death-sleep at Joseph’s side by the prayers of centuries, 
which her woman’s spirit had no power to grant or 
prevent. This theory planted by Mary Aquila took 
root and sent forth strong branches of resolve. Its 
speedy growth surprised the artist. His painting — still 
unborn — should be the fruit of the morning’s conversa- 
tion. He would change the preconceived spirit of the 
canvas; he would carry Mary’s message to the world. 
How great and good to give utterance to an idea spoken 
by the sweetest voice ever heard! If Miss Aquila’s 
feelings were indeed so strong as they appeared, might 
he not in this way induce her to lend her personality, her 
fair form and radiant face as model and guide? 

The thought became an obsession and sent the blood 
singing to his brain. He was impatient to make desire a 
reality; he seemed to be on the threshold of a new life. 


96 


MARY 


So engrossed was he with the deep plans of inspiration, 
that he entered the house mechanically, without seeing 
Josephine awaiting him in the hall. She smiled patiently 
into his vacant eyes, accustomed to absent-minded looks 
and long periods of silence. She knew by the flowers 
he had already been out in the grounds and took the 
large bunch from him gently. 

“They shall be put into water until you want them in 
the studio,” she said. “I have never seen such splendid 
passion flowers ; the buds were so shriveled and small a 
few days ago.” 

In her pale morning gown Josephine looked very 
youthful as she took her seat contentedly behind the 
silver coffee-pot. She was a peaceful breakfast com- 
panion, always in the same tranquil mood, ready to 
enjoy the food placed before her and to agree with 
everything her husband said. 

“Did you come across Mary in your early walk?” she 
asked with natural curiosity. 

Arrow nodded assent. He was looking down and 
Josephine did not notice the slight rising of the color in 
his cheeks. 

“Yes. We met in the conservatory where the passion 
flowers grow.” 

Mrs. Penreath paused in her gentle stirring of the 
liquid in an antique china cup. 

“How did she impress you? Is she really so beauti- 
ful, Arrow?” 

He glanced under his eyelids at the wife whose charms 
were enhanced by the aid of costly clothes, a well- 
coiffured head, delicate powders, scented soaps and a 
maid excelling in massage and manicure, then pictured 
the worker outside in her plain blue gown, her luxurious 
hair forming a perfectly natural crown. No butterfly 


PASSION FLOWERS 


97 


of fashion could compete with that simple unadorned 
beauty. His mind was enchained by the spirituality of 
Mary’s presence, the luminous eyes, the strange blend- 
ing of strength and femininity, the influence she wielded 
— an influence that was felt. The two women were so 
utterly different ; they bore no comparison. Mary stood 
alone, like a bright star in a clear blue sky. He could 
not help recalling his passing thought of the previous 
night, when, in anticipation, he pitied the newcomer her 
sight of Josephine in soft draperies and jewels. He 
knew now she could not have eclipsed the lady gardener 
in working garb. Mary must always convey the beauty 
of a dignity which was not of earth, a beauty that made 
its own light in a setting of mysterious blue. 

“She is certainly good looking,” he said cautiously, 
aware the gentler sex were always open to feminine 
jealousy. “If I could persuade her to sit for me, I 
should wish for no better model. She has exactly the 
face and figure I require for the work I hope to com- 
mence to-day.” 

Josephine was quite content with the tone of the reply. 
Arrow never praised a woman’s appearance in a manner 
to cause her anxiety. He only waxed eloquent where 
Josephine’s charms were concerned. He was a man of 
the world as well as an artist and knew where happiness 
lay. 

“What shall you name your new picture?” she asked. 

It was always the future task that appealed strongly 
to Josephine. She dwelt upon its growth and progress 
with a sense of excitement which could not exist for 
triumphs accomplished or laurels won. 

Possibly this attitude had been caught from Arrow. 
A picture finished never held for him the romance and 
excitement of work to do. 


98 MARY 

“Oh ! the name,” he replied, “that has not been decided 
yet.” 

He paused as if in contemplation, then a sudden light 
broke over his face as once again he heard the thrilling 
voice of Mary Aquila dominating his thoughts. 

“Perhaps,” he said, emphasizing the word — “perhaps 
I shall call it ‘Have pity on Joseph’s wife.’ ” 

Mrs. Penreath looked puzzled, the sentence conveyed 
nothing to her mind. 

“But what would that mean?” she asked in mystified 
accents. 

Arrow bent forward and his eyes grew bright as he 
replied : 

“I should leave the face in the picture to explain the 
meaning. The face of the Madonna in new and unex- 
pected guise, horrified at seeing herself modeled in 
gaudy colors as the saint of sacred shrines — the Ma- 
donna, humble, trembling, shrinking back appalled — 
raising protesting hands — reminding the world that she 
was ‘just woman’ — the wife of Joseph. In my picture 
she asks no throne, seeks no glory. Humble, fear- 
stricken, misunderstood Mary wishes only to be woman, 
mother, wife. I shall show the real Mary, whose death 
has never been written, the Mary whose earth-children 
knew her only as the simple keeper of their home, the 
Mary who was subject to man in the days when woman 
was the weaker vessel.” 

Josephine rose and put her arms round her husband’s 
neck, drawn by some subtle instinct, eager to show her 
admiration for his genius. 

“Oh ! Arrow*” she cried, “I am glad you thought out 
that idea ; it is so different to anything you have done in 
the past and delightfully original.” 

He started back at the word which jarred upon him 


PASSION FLOWERS 99 

strangely. He would like to have detached himself from 
Josephine’s embrace, to be absolutely alone. 

“The thought,” he answered, “is one of inspiration, 
not invented for the sake of novelty, not striving after a 
new sensation. It is just truth, nothing more ; only until 
this morning the truth somehow escaped me, and I saw 
with different eyes. It is possible to live entirely among 
phantoms, to create with our poor human brains the 
notable characters in history, thus missing the real men 
and women as they are, as they should be or as they 
were. Then possibly — all in a moment — some strong 
illuminating influence shatters your best dreams and 
puts them to shame by a revelation of reality.” 

Josephine listened with a smile, fancying she could 
fully comprehend the intricate working of her husband’s 
mind. 

“I understand,” she said, but her voice sounded a 
little uncertain, despite her inward conviction. 

Arrow, watching her now with lenient eyes, knew in- 
stinctively he was not really understood. His thoughts 
came from Mary’s influence — and Josephine had not 
seen Mary yet. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 

M RS. PENREATH had intended sending for Miss 
Aquila to interview her formally, a task, self- 
imposed, to save Arrow all responsibility and trouble. 
But seeing the morning so inviting, she decided instead 
to go out and find the newcomer, conscious of an intense 
desire to see Mary at work in the garden. As Josephine 
walked through the sunny grounds she thought again of 
all she had heard about this woman, picturing the sleep- 
ing Samuel, the resigned Vines, the apparently infatu- 
ated Constance Eastlake expounding the fantastic the- 
ory that Mary among the lilies was so Madonna-like she 
might almost have been the Virgin Mother come to life. 

“Of course I shall be disappointed,” she told herself. 
“I have heard such accounts of Miss Aquila’s beauty, I 
am bound to be disillusioned; one always expects too 
much.” 

The sight of Vines in the distance cutting flowers for 
the house made Josephine turn her steps in his direction. 
She had grown to think of him as rather a sullen, dis- 
contented man, with a harassed, jaded look. The ser- 
vants told her he found his wife “a bit of a handful,” 
and certainly the rumors of Mrs. Vines’ extravagance 
were sufficient to make the young, hard-working hus- 
band an object of pity. 

His “good-morning” was always respectful but de- 
100 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


101 


jected, spoken mournfully and accompanied by a down- 
ward glance. Now the handsome face turned to Mrs. 
Penreath with a bright smile and his “good-day, 
madam,” rang with a note of cheerful salutation. 

Josephine supposed that the warm spring weather 
was having its effect upon Vines’ spirits. Certainly the 
garden, all growing, blowing and sunlit, was enough to 
warm the heart of any worker in the fruitful soil. It 
seemed as if suddenly spring stepped back, giving place 
to full triumphant summer. 

“I am looking for Miss Aquila,” said Josephine. 
“Can you tell me where she is?” 

Vines glanced in the direction of the cottage which 
had once been Monk’s. 

“I think she has just stepped back to her home, 
ma’am, to give an eye to the child. She was up rare and 
early, and she’s done more work, I may say, than any 
man I ever saw, yet she didn’t seem tired, and I should 
think she was one as wouldn’t complain whatever she 
had to do.” 

The confession surprised Josephine, who had scarcely 
expected to hear praise of the lady gardener from one 
who hoped to fill her place. This sudden change ap- 
peared almost unnatural and gave his listener an eerie 
sensation, filling her with a certain dread. Perhaps, 
after all, there was something uncanny about Mary, a 
charm that bewitched, a strength of example, a mysteri- 
ous power of influence. Then why should such a wealth 
of virtue inspire Josephine with fear? This was the 
question she silently asked herself as she murmured: 

“Oh! she has gone to see the little fellow she brought 
home last night? I heard there was quite a dramatic 
scene in the village and that you were passing at the 
time.” 


102 


MARY 


Vines nodded. “Yes, ma’am, never saw the like of it 
before, without a bit of fear or a by-your-leave, she took 
the lad in hand and paid no heed to his mother’s curses. 
She came up to our place to get some clothes for him 
later on, and one of the twins suddenly woke up and 
cried out that she was an angel. Then, strangely 
enough, he fell asleep again in a moment, though he is 
such a restless child as a rule. Hettie couldn’t make it 
out at all. If you will excuse my saying so, it might be 
wiser not to go up to the cottage just at present, for I 
met Mrs. Benn on her way there, tracking Miss Aquila. 
You might hear some language, though I will say the 
woman was not drunk this morning, or I would have 
turned her out of the grounds. She came up the drive, 
walking quite steadily, and certainly had full command 
of her senses, but as for rage, well, she was near burst- 
ing with anger when she named Miss Aquila’s conduct. 
It seems, from what Mrs. Benn told me, that she had 
been talking over the affair with the police, and they 
have promised, if the boy is not restored to-day, to inter- 
fere and take him away by force.” 

Mrs. Penreath looked distinctly worried. She hated 
the idea of an unpleasant scene occurring at Ruther- 
wyke. 

“How very awkward,” she said, speaking more to 
herself than to Vines. “I wonder if it is safe to let Mrs. 
Benn go alone to the cottage. She may do Mary some 
bodily harm.” 

Vines shook his head and smiled again. 

“Don’t you trouble about Miss Aquila’s safety, 
ma’am. She has a way with her*that might even disarm 
such a person as young Sam’s mother, seeing as Mrs. 
Benn is sober now after her night’s rest. From the look 
of her, I should say she had not seen the inside of the 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


103 


Lion’s Claw this morning. She has got sufficient sense 
to keep off the drink before going to the police station. 
I told her straight : ‘If you can’t be civil, best clear out. 
We won’t have no swearing here or fisticuffs.’ She was 
that afraid I wouldn’t let her go on to the cottage, she 
grew quite humble and began wiping her eyes, telling me 
I was a parent and ought to understand her feelings. I 
thought perhaps, ma’am, it was better to let the two 
women have it out, for, after all, the boy was sort of 
stolen, and being the mother, I suppose she has a claim.” 

Mrs. Penreath agreed. Vines’ undisguised interest in 
the situation afforded her secret amusement. She had 
no intention of taking his advice and keeping away from 
the cottage, so after pointing out some roses she wanted 
for her boudoir, she moved away in the direction of 
Mary’s home. By now her curiosity was thoroughly 
aroused. She quickened her steps as she hastened down 
the Monk’s Walk and passed the broad acre of her- 
baceous plants which led to the small white building in 
its sheltered nook. 

As she approached the open door the sound of voices 
reached her. She drew nearer, intending to enter, but 
hesitated on the threshold, riveted by the sight which 
met her astonished eyes. 

Mary stood, tall, erect, a strangely radiant figure, 
triumphant in the beauty that was solely of nature, and 
her glowing spirit, looking down with wistful yet com- 
pelling eyes at the short, red-faced woman in the crushed 
bonnet and untidy clothes, which told their own story of 
careless drunken habits. 

Between them hovered the child with the “infant Sam- 
uel” face. To-day he was. ruddy after his long night’s 
rest, refreshed by a morning bath and the sweet, warm 
milk he had taken at breakfast. He wore a little white 


104 


MARY 


suit, and his spotlessly clean appearance had evidently 
taken his mother by storm, for she gazed at him half 
stupidly, as if doubting her own senses. 

“Blest if I knew’d ’im!” she muttered. “What ’ave 
you done to ’is ’air?” 

One trembling finger, shooting through a torn black 
cotton glove, pointed to the fair halo, which loving 
hands had brushed until the rich gloss shone on each 
strand of live, bright gold. So clean was the little figure 
from head to foot that it seemed to his wondering mother 
he was some new creature, different to the dirty urchin 
she ill used in her fits of frenzy or sullen brooding. It 
staggered her to see that Sam could look as attractive 
as the children of the rich, to know that her son was 
beautiful, though she had never discovered his beauty 
until Mary showed her the amazing and almost terrify- 
ing change. 

The woman who had snatched the boy from dirt and 
squalor to make him pure and utterly delightful, a speci- 
men of childhood at its best, turned to answer Mrs. 
Benn’s stammered question. 

“Yes, is it not lovely hair? It does look different now 
it has been washed; you see it becomes many shades 
lighter and so fluffy. I am not surprised you hardly 
recognized him. There are lots of people who could be 
noble and happy if they were clean. But all the powers 
of love and joy somehow seem clogged by dirt, and you 
are apt to forget the jewel beneath. You never thought 
you could be proud of Sam, yet I am only his friend, and 
I feel tremendously proud of him to-day.” 

A genuine ring of admiration gave Mary’s voice a 
tender maternal note. It stilled the curse on Mrs. 
Benn’s lips and brought to her face a look of awe. The 
shifty eyes glanced first at the child and then at Mary. 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


105 


Rage and mistrust gradually died away. Something of 
shame crept instead over the hard features coarsened 
by excess, softening them by the magic of example, as if 
a ray of light pierced a dungeon, speaking of a world 
where hearts could be happy, where the sun warmed and 
cheered, where men and women rejoiced in open skies 
and free, untainted air. 

“I come to take ’im back,” muttered the woman. 
“He’s my boy. I come to tell yer” — she hesitated and 
quailed beneath the clear gaze of Mary’s glowing eyes — 
“well, to tell yer things as p’raps had best be left un- 
spoken. Maybe you meant no harm by the lad. Maybe 
I wouldn’t ’ave minded any other time, but I always feel 
that upset on the day my man was took. Come that 
date — I just goes up to the Claw and tries to forget. 
But here, I don’t want you preachin’ at me; there are 
enough doing that, the chapel bloke and the parsin, and 
all them temperance lot. I never touched a drop be- 
fore my trouble, but now, well, I’m a bit lonely, and I 
feels I want some comfort and cheer. Still, I’m fond of 
that lad, though I never tried to make a toff of ’im, and 
I just felt I could have killed you yesterday when you 
walked him off. Lucky I hadn’t a weapon about me, and 
couldn’t see straight neither, or there would ’ave been 
murder done. The day of my trouble, you see, lady, the 
day of my trouble come four years.” 

Mary drew a step nearer. Her attitude was one of 
sympathy rather than censure. 

“Though you have lost your husband,” she said 
gently, “he has left you a part of himself to guard and 
cherish. Human beings are all kings. Each has the 
kingdom of himself to govern, and he may, through 
influencing others, enlarge that kingdom to a vast em- 
pire. When I saw your child I thought at once that hi.' 


106 


MARY 


surroundings were not fit for a young king, so I brought 
him here, and now instead of a tangled mass of unkempt 
hair, you see to full advantage the golden crown he was 
meant to wear. You must fit yourself to be his keeper 
and guide, then I will give him back to you. At present 
he will stay with me, and learn to be happy, and rule 
that great estate which is all his own.” 

Mrs. Benn looked mystified. Her thoughts could 
easily be read by the baffled expression in her eyes and 
the gaping wonder of a mouth that opened, but failed 
to speak. Mary’s ideas were all so new to her, she could 
not grasp them for a moment. She put out her hands, 
as though to feel her way in the dark, then gripped the 
back of a chair and eyed Sam again. 

“A king,” she muttered, “that’s funny! Who says 
he’s a king?” 

“I do,” answered Mary, smiling. 

Once more the mother viewed her child wonderingly. 

“Might be from the looks of ’im. Lor’ ! but it’s a 
queer idea, and you seem as if you meant it too.” 

The light from the window shone upon the face and 
form of the child in the white suit. He stood quite still, 
quite silent, knowing well he was the object of their con- 
versation, dreading lest he would be torn from Mary’s 
side and taken back to the dirt and misery of his home. 

Mrs. Benn spoke again, this time a trifle boastfully, 
with a pathetic attempt to assert her will. 

“He is mine for all that. I’ve a right in ’im you can’t 
gainsay me for all your fine talk. I don’t see why I 
should leave him here. Can’t he be happy at home?” 

Her voice was louder now, as her confidence grew, and 
she became more accustomed to her surroundings. She 
put out her hand to catch the boy’s arm, but he darted 
aside and hid behind Miss Aquila’s blue skirt. 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


107 


Mary pointed to a chair. 

“Sit down, Mrs. Benn,” she said. “I want to discuss 
an idea with you. Of course you have a right to Sam. 
What a splendid thought — to have a right in a king! 
As you sit there, I think you can see yourself in the glass 
which hangs on the opposite wall. It is our only orna- 
ment on the plain white paper, and I placed it there to 
reflect the morning sunlight. At this moment it reflects 
you. Now, look well and tell me whether it does not seem 
just a little strange you should have created a thing of 
beauty and gladness ? Remember, it was your own work, 
the marvelous, the blessed work of motherhood. You 
suffered and bore a human soul with its divinity, its 
immortality, its kingdom of brain and will. Is that 
nothing to be proud of? There are rich women to-day 
who would give half their fortune for a son like yours, 
yet the child of their dreams is held back ; they are bar- 
ren. They pray to God for issue, and He sees fit (we 
know not why) to turn a deaf ear and withhold the boon. 
But you are among the blessed — and not alone in your 
parental pride, for Sam’s father is waiting to welcome 
the boy he left to fill his place in the world and in your 
heart. You have the task of training up your husband’s 
legacy, if you would really be a mother worthy of the 
name and not dishonor your high calling. But, as you 
said just now, there are plenty of people to preach, and 
I am just going to trust you, that’s all. I think it is 
right, if Sam stays with me, that you should see him 
every day, so listen to my suggestion. I mean to engage 
somebody from the village to come each morning and 
clean the cottage, and I should like you to undertake the 
work. I will give you a complete set of new clothes, and 
you must always wear them when you come here. You 
must bring clean hands, a clean face and a bright smile. 


108 


MARY 


You must promise me, of course, to give up drinking, 
because I could not allow a drunkard to associate with 
Sam.” 

Mary spoke so naturally and calmly that at first it 
seemed as if she had said nothing very extraordinary. 
Mrs. Benn, listening to the words with attentive ears, 
grew suddenly pale from emotion, then sprang with a 
cry to her feet, her lips quivering, her dull eyes bright- 
ened by tears of joy, her hands clasped as if in supplica- 
tion. She tottered to Mary’s side. 

“You — you — would trust me? You think I could 
give up the drink and come here, to your cottage to keep 
it clean? You believe that? If you’re mockin’ me, it’s 
time you stopped. I’m a woman I tell you with feelings, 
for all they may gibe at me in Abbotts Brooke. I’m 
down because I fretted. I lost heart, but I could do 
better for the boy’s sake — and maybe for yours.” 

Sam was nestling in the circle of Mary’s arm, and the 
two regarded Mrs. Benn with pitying eyes. 

“Of course I mean what I say,” answered Miss Aquila 
warmly. “So soon as you can get the clothes and be- 
come clean, like Sam, I shall expect you to arrive and 
look after the place. You had better not let Mr. or Mrs. 
Penreath see you to-day ; they might disapprove of my 
choice. When they hear you are at the cottage later on, 
your changed appearance will be its own recommenda- 
tion.” 

Josephine drew back behind the door. She felt sure 
Mary observed her, and fancied the words were spoken 
out of consideration for Sam’s mother, as a hint to the 
listener to conceal her presence. 

“Oh ! you are good — you are good,” cried Mrs. Benn 
almost fiercely. “You know ’ow to ’elp. You’re not 
one of the mealy-mouthed lot, what jaws and does 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


109 


nothing. Strike me blind if I fail you! I’d sooner cut 
off my right hand than go to the Claw when in your 
service. I shall see you often if I come, shan’t I, miss? 
And you’ll just speak a word now and again when you 
pop in from the garden. It gives one fresh heart to be 
trusted once more ; it sort o’ draws a body together ; it’s 
’eaven right ’ere. I didn’t think to meet an angel when 
I came up to Rutherwyke this morning.” 

“Nor a king,” added Mary with a musical little 
laugh. “Sam is coming to the kitchen garden with me 
now, so as you have plenty to do, we won’t waste any 
more time talking. Take this money for your clothes 
and lay it out to the best possible advantage. You 
might walk into Egham this afternoon and look at the 
shops ; no time like the present. Be sure you get every- 
thing new. A new life is best started in fresh, unspoiled 
attire, but first clean out the little home, Mrs. Benn. 
You must not soil the spotless wardrobe in dirty cup- 
boards.” 

Mrs. Benn’s face looked radiant as her eyes rested 
lovingly on the coins from Mary’s purse. 

“If temptations come,” continued the soft voice, “say 
to yourself : ‘I’m a mother, and Mary told me a mother 
was the grandest thing on God’s earth.’ Remember the 
kingdom you have given Sam, the kingdom we must 
teach him to rule. Pride in your child, and then pride 
in yourself, will beat down the craving for drink. If 
it’s a battle, if it strikes hard, if it hurts, then be glad. 
Self-trust is the very essence of heroism, and you have 
to trust yourself, even as I trust you, completely, with- 
out a thought of failure. The fight with unseen forces, 
the splendid victory will make you free; it will raise and 
cleanse. Come, Sam, bid your mother good-bye and say : 
‘God bless you.’ ” 


110 


MARY 


Sam smiled broadly at the thought of framing the 
unexpected words. Then he looked up with a little 
chuckle of delight and lisped: “God bless you” in a 
shrill treble. 

Mrs. Benn did not attempt to kiss him as she turned 
to go. She was afraid of his spotless appearance, for 
now she felt thoroughly conscious of her own dilapi- 
dated condition. She realized her hands were unwashed, 
her coat torn and her skirt caked still with the winter’s 
mud. She made a feeble effort to straighten her 
crooked bonnet in the glass Mary had indicated a few 
moments since, but for lack of pins it stubbornly de- 
clined to remain in a dignified position. 

“Never mind,” murmured Mary kindly, “the new 
bonnet will be so much firmer.” 

Mrs. Benn hurried to the door with a whispered 
“thank you,” and saw Josephine standing back to let 
her pass. Just for a moment she hesitated, as if ex- 
pecting some harsh word or angry question, but the 
mistress of Rutherwyke was silent. Then, with set lips 
and panting breath the short black figure made a sud- 
den dart for the path, and with quick running steps 
vanished behind the holly hedge, thankful to be pro- 
tected from spying eyes, vaguely wondering if Mrs. 
Penreath would reproach Mary for receiving such a 
visitor. 

“Poor woman, I am afraid I terrified her,” said the 
artist’s wife as she turned to Mary with a deprecating 
gesture. “I waited outside because I did not like to 
break in upon an interview which Vines warned me 
might be somewhat stormy. It was quite wonderful 
to hear you taming Mrs. Benn, but I feel sure the 
money you gave her so generously will be spent in drink, 
and you will never see her arrive in those new clothes to 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 111 

look after the cottage. Besides, how could such a per- 
son keep any place clean ?” 

Josephine spoke hopelessly, but Mary smiled away 
the doubt. 

“That remains to be seen. It was the least I could do 
under the circumstances. She was so forlorn, I had to 
give her a chance. Don’t you think those people are 
often put purposely in our path, that we may help 
them? I felt terribly sorry for her when she spoke of 
her husband’s death and the shocking way she keeps the 
anniversary. It was such a poor, pitiful excuse. But 
one must be kind to widows ; they are indeed desolate. 
I came across another very sad case yesterday — also a 
widow, and she was following her only son to the grave.” 

As Josephine listened to the sympathetic voice an 
uneasy suspicion possessed her that the speaker viewed 
life from a higher plane, reached unconsciously through 
purity of spirit and forgetfulness of self. Mary’s mind 
dwelt in a kindlier altitude, inhabiting a world where 
duty became pleasure, where all souls counted and none 
were worthless or despised. Mrs. Penreath wondered 
how she gained this clear, unfettered view, this deep 
sympathy and understanding. Possibly Vines had al- 
ready caught the infection of Mary’s smile, and the 
newcomer was responsible for his bright, changed 
manner. 

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Penreath, allowing the child 
to play with the tasseled ends of her scarf, “that you 
have trained yourself to try and think well of every- 
body. It must be difficult, since there are so many 
vicious, dishonest people to be met everywhere. As to 
trusting Mrs. Benn ” 

Josephine broke off with a little toss of her head and 
a look which clearly showed she quite despaired of 


112 MARY 

Sam’s mother, fearing the ill-advised confidence placed 
in her by Mary. 

The lady gardener was quick to catch the satirical 
tone, noting the critical half-curious gaze turned in her 
direction. 

“I think,” replied the voice which Arrow likened to 
the Gabriel bell, “I believe in people because I have lived 
so long in the world, and from many years of experi- 
ence find it is worth while. This is a secret learned by 
age, after many wanderings and not a little pain.” 

The low retort held a wealth of meaning. Mary 
seemed speaking more to herself than to Mrs. Penreath. 
The artist’s wife looked at the youthful figure, in the 
full bloom of early womanhood, with astonishment, mar- 
veling at the words. 

“But you are quite young,” she declared emphati- 
cally. “Compared to me you’re a mere child. Why, to 
hear you talk, you might be double my age.” 

The sun was shining on Mary’s face, proving it 
without line or wrinkle — enveloping the form, feminine 
yet strong, and making the blue of her gown like the 
azure skies or the rich tone of a summer sea. 

“Women never care to give away their ages,” she 
answered with a little laugh, which charmed Josephine 
and made her forget they were newly acquainted. 
“Perhaps I am far older than you think, and in time you 
will find me out.” 

As Mary spoke Mrs. Penreath realized that the new- 
comer was certainly very mysterious. She stood with 
the sun’s rays reflected upon her upright figure, its 
womanly curves diffusing warmth and light, as if she 
herself were the very center of those dancing beams. 

Sam was growing impatient. He began to pull at 
Mary’s skirt and look toward the garden. Josephine 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 113 

forgot that as yet Miss Aquila had made no excuse for 
the boy’s presence. 

“I’ll walk with you to the kitchen garden,” said Mrs. 
Penreath, “and Sam shall see my baby chickens.” 

The three passed out together from the White Cot- 
tage to the sunlit path. For a moment there was silence. 
Josephine’s thoughts were busy with a proposition she 
promised to make for Arrow. He was keenly desirous 
that Mary should be the model for his new picture and 
suggested that his wife might try and arrange the mat- 
ter for him as diplomatically as possible. Surely, he 
argued, his fame was more important than the progress 
and care of any garden. Much as he loved Rutherwyke, 
the grounds could go to rack and ruin if their prosper- 
ity were to rob him of a desired object to feed his in- 
spiration. From earliest years art came first — wife, 
home, love, self, all ranked beneath the insatiable calls of 
that great career which ruled him as a god. He would 
suffer willingly to achieve, he would make others suffer 
in the cause, if by their sacrifice the work excelled. 

“Of course,” Josephine began, looking down at Sam 
to avoid meeting Mary’s eyes, “I can see you are very 
fond of gardening, or you would never have succeeded 
so well ; besides, Lady Constance told me your presence 
at the school was invaluable; she really does not know 
what they will do without you. Still, however well we 
succeed in one sphere, it is occasionally pleasant to have 
a little change and turn to something else, if only for a 
short time.” 

Mrs. Penreath walked slowly, as though to detain 
Mary, who, out of politeness, suited her steps to the 
languid saunter, though her mind was far away, in 
scenes of active labor and plans for Rutherwyke. 

“Oh! yes, change is very refreshing, but I prefer 


114 


MARY 


change of situation to change of work,” replied Mary 
quickly. “I never stay long in one place. I just come 
for a little, and I do my best to prepare the way for 
those who follow. Strangely enough, I often arrive 
where there has been trouble. Lady Constance was on 
the verge of giving up her gardening efforts when first 
I went to the Eastlake School. The girls were doing 
badly, there seemed no order in the place and the soil 
was not productive. Somehow I was fortunate in put- 
ting fresh courage into Lady Constance, who was just 
beginning to despair. The students only wanted a little 
understanding, and by degrees (it was like playing a 
game) the fortunes of the gardening school turned a 
corner and started off on the right road. Before I came 
here I heard of your trouble with Monk. It is terrible 
to have to suspect an old servant and throw him out of 
work, leaving him on the world with a lost character 
and perhaps a broken heart.” 

Josephine disliked any mention of this subject, which 
was peculiarly disagreeable to her. But Mary spoke 
so naturally, her listener could not take offense, soothed 
by the warm yet saintly glow in the face of this beauti- 
ful woman, which appeared to give her the privilege of 
saying and doing just what she pleased without offense. 
The artist’s wife felt little surprise that Arrow should 
desire Mary for the model of the Virgin. To find a 
fitting type for such a picture one must surely seek a 
soul shining through the outwardly fair form, a per- 
sonality revealing some lineament of heaven and spark 
of life divine. 

“My husband particularly dislikes changes,” said 
Josephine, a trifle uneasily, somewhat nettled by Mary’s 
candid announcement. “I hope if we mutually suit each 
other that you will not be wanting to leave us simply 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


115 


for the sake of changing. I was alluding to some slight 
variety in professional duties. I have been especially 
requested to ask if you would spare the time for a few 
sittings in the studio.” 

Mary did not appear the least surprised at the sug- 
gestion, though she promptly shook her head — rather 
she seemed to have expected some such request. 

“I am a gardener,” she answered simply — and in 
Josephine’s mind the name took a new form of romance 
as Mary framed the word — “not an artist’s model.” 

Mrs. Penreath coughed slightly, a habit of hers when 
perturbed. Then she drew the light scarf firmly over 
her shoulders, as if to ward off a sense of chill. 

“I know the request is unusual. But may I not tell 
my husband at least you will think it over? Perhaps 
you might possibly change your mind after a little con- 
sideration. You see, he is very highly strung and can- 
not understand his wishes being thwarted. It would 
make it far easier for me if the refusal might come from 
you direct.” 

Mary turned to the speaker spontaneously, and Jose- 
phine had never felt herself so quickly and entirely 
understood. 

“Of course. Tell him to ask me himself, that will be 
much better.” 

“Thank you,” said Josephine. 

They walked on in silence, no longer feeling like 
strangers, for a bond of sympathy sprang up between 
them, bringing the woman of fashion and the humble 
worker into tune with each other. 

Though J osephine said little, she was unusually sensi- 
tive to Mary’s strange individual spirit, aware that the 
texture of the soul and body at her side was in some 
way different to the million souls and bodies she had 


116 


MARY 


met in her earth journey. Possibly other people were 
less restful, less quick to comprehend. In a mysterious 
way Mary’s presence illuminated her most ordinary re- 
marks, her every gesture, her very step ; the regal grace 
of her absolutely simple dress formed a living enchant- 
ment, free entirely from the wiles of the world. 

The woman at her side felt enriched by proximity. 
When at last — because Mary had work to do — the but- 
terfly felt obliged to flutter away, it was with unwilling 
wings and unspoken regrets. 

Quickly Josephine retraced her steps to the studio, 
where she found Arrow arranging passion flowers with 
the quick, impatient touch of one who knows exactly 
what he wants and brooks no delay. 

“Will Mary sit for me?” he asked, without looking 
up, for his sharp ears recognized Josephine’s step. 

Mrs. Penreath stood by the models’ platform with 
an expression in her eyes which might well have puzzled 
Arrow as she replied: “You had better ask her your- 
self. Mary is a little difficult at present. Only her first 
day here and already you want her to leave the garden. 
Perhaps she thought, with me, that it was hardly fair. 
Still I have no doubt it is easier for a man to persuade a 
woman than one of her own sex.” 

Arrow seldom valued what he obtained too easily, and 
Josephine’s words failed to crush his hope or disturb 
his plans. 

“Never mind,” he said. “PU see her about it later on. 
What did you think of Mary?” 

Mrs. Penreath drew nearer. One small ringed hand 
touched Arrow’s arm lightly. Then she answered in a 
hushed voice: 

“I don’t know what to think, but she certainly had 
a weird psychological effect upon me. At first I felt 


THE MYSTERY OF MARY 


117 


warm, and the warmth and the light seemed to come 
from her ; then, while we walked in the full glare of the 
sun, my flesh began to creep — as if” — she paused and 
laughed defiantly at the absurd idea — “as if indeed I 
were keeping step with some one who was not real.” 

Arrow looked up now and saw for the first time the 
wonder in Josephine’s face. 

“I fancied,” she continued, still speaking in a whis- 
per, “the newcomer was in some way different to myself, 
so spiritual perhaps, that she gives one the sensation of 
being in touch with the unseen. It is all so unusual and 
unexpected, for though Constance tried to prepare me, 
I never thought she could be like that. When I left 
Mary I hardly knew whether to laugh or cry — in fact, 
I am quite hysterical now. Shall we tell her to go? 
Shall we ask her to stay always — always and never leave 
us? Oh! Arrow, you are clever, perhaps you can ex- 
plain? I’m in a mist — I’m frightened and yet glad. I 
can’t understand my own feelings; I am like a child 
frightened in the dark.” 

Arrow put his arms round Josephine, feeling her 
shoulders tremble. 

“If I were the ordinary man, I should say you were a 
little out of sorts and very imaginative.” 

His wife nestled closer. 

“But you are not the ordinary man, Arrow.” 

Her words conveyed a truth he knew only too well. 

“No, and therefore I agree with you that Mary has 
some power which is unusual and mystifying, though I 
am certainly unable to explain it away. We must wait, 
watch and keep our own counsel. Time will make every- 
thing clear, and Miss Aquila cannot really be so very 
different to other people. Nothing remains a mystery 


118 


MARY 


very long — not death itself. In a good hour we learn 
even that great secret — last of all . 55 

Josephine sighed. 

“But I hope , 55 she murmured, “I shall not have to 
wait until I am dead before I fathom the mystery of 
Mary . 55 


CHAPTER IX 


mary’s long blue cloak 

T HE long summer morning and the drowsy after- 
noon which bathed Rutherwyke’s grounds in sun- 
light saw nothing more of the busy artist imprisoned in 
his studio. 

Arrow spent the rest of the day making prospective 
sketches and painting passion flowers. His picture had 
not as yet taken a definite form in his mind. He 
thought, too, that, after all, perhaps it was a little soon 
to ask favors of Mary. Her first day in the new garden 
naturally occupied her mind and was full of interest. 

An artist’s studio would make a strange contrast to 
the work she loved outside and might naturally repel 
one apparently unconscious of her physical beauty. So 
he wisely kept away, aware that many a desire in life 
met early doom through too great a display of anxiety. 

It was not until the sun set that Mary left the garden 
and made her way once again to Abbotts Brooke. All 
^through the day her thoughts turned constantly to the 
woman who had slept beneath her cloak, with tears still 
wet upon her cheek and the light from a street lamp 
gleaming across a darkened room. This evening as the 
shadows gathered she would once again see Mrs. Cray 
and judge if that sleep proved sufficiently sure to build 
up the tired frame and make the weary eyes look out 
upon a happier world. Perhaps some word spoken in 


no 


MARY 


the twilight might bind together the broken strings of 
a woman’s sorrowing heart, drawing them into tune — 
making life harmonious. Such thoughts passed hope- 
fully through Mary’s mind as she w r alked down the hill 
by Rutherwyke Lane, which now seemed quite familiar. 
Vines was also on his way back to high tea and Hettie. 
Seeing him following at a respectful distance, Mary 
waited, with a pleasant smile, to give him some instruc- 
tions for to-morrow’s work. He listened with attention 
and no little surprise as her words unfolded admirable 
knowledge of the gardener’s art. He had never believed 
it possible he could learn gardening from a woman, but 
Mary was planting seeds of knowledge which sank 
deeply into his mind. 

“I must say, miss,” he declared at last, longing to 
confide in her, “it seems as if everything ought to go 
smoothly with the likes of you about a place, yet I can’t 
help still thinking of Monk and his sad fate. Somehow 
to-day I have dwelt on him more than ever. Once or 
twice I could have sworn I heard his footfall behind me 
on the path. He had a peculiarly heavy way of tramp- 
ing along the gravel. I turned sharply and looked for 
him several times, absolutely sure he was coming with 
some message or plea for help. It brought me out all 
of a cold sweat when I saw there wasn’t a soul in sight, 
for I’m not given to imagining things. How can one 
account for them footsteps I’d like to know?” 

Mary listened without surprise. Her air of under- 
standing was peculiarly conducive to confidence as she 
replied : 

“A fanciful brain often plays tricks, and our 
thoughts may mislead us, especially when we are tired 
or worried. You worked so long under Monk it would 
not seem right to forget him immediately. His dismis- 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


121 


sal, too, with its revelation of deceit and shame, came 
as such a shock that it naturally lingers in your mind, 
taking a more persistent hold upon the imagination 
than if you had parted under happier circumstances. I 
suppose he really deserved to be turned away ; Mr. Pen- 
reath could hardly have misjudged him. The poor man 
reaped the harvest of his own misdeeds and would not 
blame his master for acting as he did. But if, by any 
terrible mistake, Monk was innocent and falsely accused 
of dishonesty, he is indeed a martyr, then the very an- 
gels might weep, then ” 

Here she paused, drawing herself up sharply, as 
though the words were running away with her and she 
feared what she might say. 

Vines’ hands were clenched. He had become strangely 
pale. In a tremulous voice he ventured to add: “And 
then, Miss Aquila? Won’t you finish your sentence?” 

“Well, I was going to add, perhaps his feet might 
haunt the garden, if such things were possible. But 
probably the heavy tread re-echoed from your brain; it 
was just a passing fancy, I expect.” 

Despite her reassuring tone, the man looked troubled 
still. 

They were nearing Abbotts Brooke, and now Vines 
hesitated, glancing first toward his home, then up the 
empty road. 

Mary waited for him to speak again. She could see 
he had something on his mind. 

“I don’t object to telling you,” he said, “that when 
my missus mentioned last night how Monk was talking 
of doing away with himself, it seemed to catch me at 
the windpipe. It just took my breath clean away and 
nigh throttled me. If my old pal was to do anything 


122 


MARY 


foolish — well, I would not answer for the consequences 
to myself. I think I’d go raving mad.” 

He shuffled his feet, casting his eyes nervously upon 
the ground to conceal their terrified expression. Mary 
saw a red streak of color creep from his ear to his fore- 
head and spread its dye by slow stages across the whole 
face. 

“If you can find out where Monk is staying,” she said 
softly, and her voice rang out like a note of music, 
“send him to me. I might find him a situation. I have 
a friend who believes in my theory of trusting people 
when they are down. In this way one can often lift 
them up and redeem them from the misery of the past. 
This friend would give Monk work were I to ask him, 
and I feel sure he would never regret lending a helping 
hand in this particular case.” 

A look of intense relief broke over Vines’ features as 
he answered eagerly: 

“Oh! in Monk’s name — and in that of his wife and 
family — I thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
You will be doing a real charity — saving a life, perhaps, 
snatching a man from a suicide’s grave. It won’t be 
difficult to get hold of him, for Hettie says he is in these 
parts. I will make it my business to find out his ad- 
dress immediately, for I don’t feel easy about him at all. 
If, Miss Aquila, there is anything I can do for you in 
return, no matter how hard, just speak the word and 
I’ll be your servant — your slave, if you will — gladly for 
the goodness you are showing my poor old friend and 
the weight you are lifting off my mind.” 

Mary smiled at this sudden flow of language and 
unexpected gallantry. She wanted no thanks and told 
Vines so as she turned toward the main street, where 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 123 

Mrs. Cray lived, dismissing him with a pleasant “good- 
night.” 

He hurried back to the wife, who only the previous 
evening feigned jealousy of Mary, conscious he had 
done something very unusual in offering to be her slave 
and really hoping for a chance of proving the well- 
meant words. 

“A bit of luck Hettie wasn’t by with her long ears to 
catch that last remark of mine,” Vines told himself. 
“Might have been misunderstood ! But there, Miss 
Aquila’s a good sort, and I don’t care if it did sound 
like high falutin’ ; it was genuine enough, bless ’er kind 
face! If she calls on me to fulfil that promise, come 
twenty years, I’ll not fail her.” 

For the moment Vines was a hero in his own thoughts, 
doing some great deed of sacrifice for the sake of the 
woman who had offered to help Monk in his hour of 
need. 

“Any thing,” muttered Vines — “anything to lay them 
footsteps a-trampin’ after me all day in the grounds />f 
Rutherwyke. It’s enough to drive a fellow silly — and 
then the dreams at night !” 

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, 
which grew moist at some fearful remembrance. He 
hoped his wife would not observe the terror lurking in 
his eyes as he entered the cottage silently. Hettie re- 
ceived him with a saucy expression, mock anger lurking 
in the tilt of her chin and the sharp elbows set akimbo. 

“I saw you !” she said laughingly. “I saw you saying 
your farewells to the lady gardener ! Taken to walking 
out together, have you? Well, this time I’m not jeal- 
ous. Since she called here about those clothes, I knew 
she was not the sort to care two straws for the likes of 
you, and that makes me easy in my mind. But, by the 


MARY 


124 

way, Matthew, I had a rare score off Mrs. Monk to-day. 
Would you believe — she was actually audacious enough 
to show her ugly mug in Abbotts Brooke, though she 
knows quite well all the scandal came out? Every one 
here looks on her now as the wife of a common thief, and 
she must be thick-skinned to be seen in the place. But 
there she was, large as life, and had the impertinence to 
wish me ‘good-day , 5 quite friendly like . 55 

“What’s the harm in that!” muttered Yines, but 
Hettie paid no heed to the ejaculation, so eager was she 
to detail her recent encounter. Never before had her 
voice sounded so peculiarly strident to Matthew’s ear 
as she reeled out the cruel words : 

“I’m not sure Mrs. Monk didn’t expect me to stop 
for the usual gossip. Lor’! but I took the shine out of 
her! I just caught the boys by the hand and pulled 
them away, for fear they should touch her skirts, and I 
looked right up at the sky with a blank stare — so. She 
gasped for a moment as if she did not understand and 
then she went quite white, turned tail and fled, while I 
thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t married to a man like 
Monk. I bet she aided him to swindle the master. I 
always thought she had a shifty look.” 

Hettie spoke so quickly that it took Matthew some 
moments to fully comprehend the statement. Then his 
face changed to a dull purple and the veins on his fore- 
,head swelled visibly, while he raised one threatening 
hand as though to strike her in sudden, uncontrollable 
anger. 

“You did that!” he thundered. “You gave Mrs. 
Monk the go by, now that she is down on her luck? 
She, as we’ve always respected and treated as a friend, 
she as was never too proud to know you when her hus- 
band was over me. Good Lord — you did that?” 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


125 


Mrs. Vines shrank back as Matthew’s uplifted hand 
fell quivering to his side. Never b fore had she seen in 
his eyes such a keen look of anger and scorn, an expres- 
sion almost murderous in its fierce hate. 

“You wouldn’t wish me to know a thief’s wife,” 
Hettie -whispered, half afraid of her own voice in the 
presence of such righteous indignation. “Why, it isn’t 
fit or proper for me and the children to be seen consort- 
ing with her. I don’t know what has come over you to 
expect anything of the kind.” 

A sound like the growl of an injured beast escaped 
Vines’ lips. His muttered retort cut deep and Hettie 
flinched as she listened to the disdainful words : 

“I don’t expect my wife to be a lady; she ain’t built 
that way, I know. But there is a difference between 
being simple working folk and downright cads. If I 
had come by, I would have forced you to apologize on 
the spot, as it is I can only writhe with shame for you, 
Hettie, and try to forget how you’ve lowered us this 
day.” 

Mrs. Vines shrugged her shoulders, tossing her head 
haughtily. She had heard enough for the present and 
was prepared to retaliate, having recovered from the 
first shock of surprise. 

“Oh! very well, writhe away,” she retorted sharply. 
“Since Monk disgraced himself it seems to me you have 
got a bee in your bonnet. I will take good care not to 
be telling you my news so free another evening.” 

Vines looked too thoroughly disgusted to pursue the 
conversation, but as he sat down gloomily he pictured 
the gray-haired Mrs. Monk, convinced of her husband’s 
innocence, watching Hettie as she sailed by with her 
children, uttering no word, giving no look in return for 
the older woman’s kindly salutation. He found the four 


1 26 


MARY 


walls of the parlor cramping and distasteful with such 
visions for company and wondered what Mary could be 
doing in Abbotts Brooke, wishing he might walk back 
with her to Rutherwyke. At least he could stand by the 
door and watch for her to pass. Perhaps he would find 
some excuse to return to the garden. Anything to 
escape from the cramping influence of home and to see 
again the sweet smiling face of the woman who was 
going to help Monk. 

Meanwhile Mary’s blue-gowned figure had reached 
Mrs. Cray’s solitary abode. As she approached the 
sound of voices fell upon her ears. A number of women 
were talking loudly, while others conversed in excited 
undertones. The front door stood open as if to invite 
entrance, and within a curious group had gathered 
round a table, on which lay Mary’s long blue cloak. 
The assembled people stood close together, bending over 
the garment. One touched it with hesitating fingers, 
another stared at it through her spectacles as if it were 
some rare curiosity, another, unseen by Mrs. Cray, was 
bending down to cut a small piece of the material from 
the deep blue hem. 

The widow’s cheeks no longer appeared pale, the flush 
of temporary excitement made her face look almost 
healthy. 

“Oh! yes,” she was saying, “I am a different woman 
to-day, and it wasn’t nothing of earth that did it, I 
know that well enough. The one as come to me worked 
a miracle and left the cloak as a sign. I tell you she 
passed in right through the wall, though she asked me 
to unbolt the door first, just by way of not skeering me, 
I suppose. I could see at once she wasn’t human, and 
of course I knew, too, by the way she talked ; such won- 
derful things she said to be sure — well, it made all the 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


127 


world seem different ! She put me down on the sofa when 
my mind was quieted a bit and laid that magic garment 
over me, and I slept like a baby till the morning. If it 
hadn’t been for the cloak, I should have said it was a 
dream. But, look here, dreams don’t give you good 
material like that. It was a visitant of sorts from good- 
ness knows where, and I’ll never see her again, least- 
ways not on this earth. But when folks scoff at ghosts 
and appearances coming after bereavements, or when 
the dead are in the house, I shall tell them straight some 
can walk and talk who are not real to my certain knowl- 
edge.” 

The woman who had spoken to Mary when the 
funeral passed eyed the company of startled neighbors 
incredulously, then turned again to the cloak spread out 
before their wondering gaze. 

“It looks,” she said, “uncommonly as if it matched 
the blue dress that lady was wearing who ran away with 
young Sam yesterday. I noticed her particularly, for 
she stopped and had a word with me just before you 
drove by, Mrs. Cray. She was asking about your son. 
I told her how kind Mr. James had been and I also 
named your bit of a tiff with Mrs. Pertree. Several of 
the neighbors wondered who the stranger could be and 
remarked on her looks. She was very pretty — in fact, a 
real beauty such as I never saw before in Abbotts 
Brooke. She went up toward Pilgrim Way with Mrs. 
Benn’s boy and young Mr. Vines from Rutherwyke. So 
I am of opinion she just dropped in last night to try 
and cheer you up. Magic and such like is for children 
at Christmas time and can’t be taken seriously by 
grown-up folks in their full senses!” 

The words were spoken in fine scorn. Seeing no one 
felt inclined to reply, the material voice continued its 


128 


MARY 


hard truths with renewed courage and marked disap- 
proval : 

“Strikes me, Mrs. Jones, ghost or no ghost, it’s hardly 
right that you should be snipping away with them 
scissors at the back of the table. We’ve come here to 
get at the truth of Mrs. Cray’s story, which is all over 
the village by now, and not to destroy what don’t belong 
to us, begging your pardon for my plain speaking.” 

With a cry Mrs. Cray snatched the cloak to her 
breast, tears rushing to her eyes as she gazed at the 
damage done so quietly by the little old woman. 

“Oh!” she gasped, “what can I say now if the lady 
should come again? How could you take such a liberty 
as to cut up other folks’ property? It’s too bad! 
That is what comes of making free with one’s confidence 
and telling outsiders what they don’t deserve to know.” 

The widow’s voice shook with mingled horror and 
anger as she turned widely opened eyes of reproof on 
Mrs. Jones. 

The culprit quickly slipped her small folding scissors 
into a pocket in her apron, while she concealed the 
square piece of blue material in the bodice of her shabby 
black dress. 

“Very sorry,” she murmured humbly, “very sorry 
indeed for giving offense. But you ain’t the only one to 
lie awake. For the last month or two I have suffered 
wonderful at nights, and as to sleeping — well, I don’t 
know what it is to close my eyes. I thought I’d put a 
bit of the cloak under my pillow to try if there was 
magic in it, but since you think the lady is coming back 
— well, she can’t be more than ordinary flesh and blood. 
You said you would never be seeing her again, and I 
believed you — that’s all.” 

Before Mrs. Cray could reply, Mary pushed the door 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


129 


widely open and stood facing the small group of women 
in her calm beauty. At first her entrance caused a 
flurried movement of startled surprise, then instinctively 
a hush fell, so intense that a pin could have been heard 
to fall. All eyes were eagerly turned upon her radiant 
face, which, by its very brightness, seemed to set in 
motion waves of healing. 

“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Mary softly. “The 
little hole in my cloak will make it so much more valu- 
able to me. I should love Mrs. Jones to sleep upon the 
piece, which I would have willingly given her. Perhaps 
it will bring some good dreams and make her feel hap- 
pier, for I really fancy my cloak has a soothing in- 
fluence. I am not surprised that I seemed rather a 
ghostly visitant to Mrs. Cray, since we sat together last 
night in the dark, and the street lamp only just helped 
us to see each other’s faces. I told her she must try and 
rest. I forced the idea upon her mind to the best of my 
ability. I also warned her she would find on the morrow 
much work to do for her large family, the world. I 
wanted to make her feel she was not alone, that many 
kind people in the village were sending her loving 
thoughts of sympathy in her sorrow. Now I come back 
to discover the door open instead of barred and friends 
gathered round in the home which seemed so empty and 
silent yesterday. Oh! it was good to hear voices. If 
my cloak could speak, it would be very proud this eve- 
ning.” 

The women listened wonderingly to the words, their 
eyes scanning the stranger with open scrutiny and 
hungry interest. Of all that gossiping throng, drawn 
to the house by curiosity, Mrs. Jones alone believed a 
supernatural visitor had spread an enchanted wrap 


130 


MARY 


over Mrs. Cray which wafted her to realms of slumber, 
where pain and bereavement could be forgotten. 

But now, as the women looked at Mary and saw the 
mysterious charm of her whole being and the light of 
her almost unearthly smile, they were strangely awed. 
For a moment even Mrs. Cray appeared afraid to speak, 
as the vision of the previous night and that long, peace- 
ful sleep returned to mystify her brain. Then suddenly 
taking courage, she stretched out her hand toward the 
newcomer and asked the question which had been left 
unanswered in the dim room when they were alone to- 
gether, asked it as a right, her tremulous voice taking a 
tone of command : 

“Who are you? Tell me that. Why do you trouble 
about me? What has brought you to Abbotts Brooke?” 

In the pause which followed the women exchanged 
excited glances, looking from Mrs. Cray to the stran- 
ger and touching each other surreptitiously with hands 
that eagerly desired mutual human contact. 

The answer came so naturally that it banished their 
unspoken dread: 

“My name is Mary Aquila. I am a gardener at 
Rutherwyke.” 

As the spell broke they breathed more freely, only 
Mrs. Cray kept her eyes riveted upon the blue-gowned 
figure with a new light dawning in their tired depths, a 
light of comprehension which the others failed to un- 
derstand. 

“Mary,” she murmured in a low, hesitating whisper 
— “Mary.” Surely there was a world of meaning in 
her hushed and reverent tone ! 

“Quite a homely name,” said the low, melodious voice. 

Mrs. Cray clasped her hands and her breast heaved. 

“A Bible name,” she said softly in accents of adora- 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


131 


tion. “Mary sat at the Lord’s feet, and I think from 
your face you have sat there too.” 

Her friends wondered at the words, but made no 
comment, only they noticed a shadow passing by the 
window, the shadow of Mrs. Benn making her way up 
the village street toward the Lion’s Claw. 

Mary said nothing, but she, too, watched the shadow, 
while the little group turned again to her, waiting for 
a word. Once more a thrill of delicious dread swept 
over them, the dread of children when they creep to the 
borderland of some fairy town peopled by specters and 
winged forms. 

At last Mary spoke: 

“I have not come to take the cloak away, for I think 
perhaps it will help Mrs. Cray to sleep again. She must 
try and endow it herself with mystical power and forget 
it only belonged to a humble garden worker.” 

The stranger spoke as if she were their equal, yet the 
simple words failed to induce the women to accept her 
as such. The gentle intonation of her voice, her refine- 
ment of form and feature, the noble, unadorned grace 
of clothes so utterly different to any they had seen be- 
fore, all impressed their unsophisticated minds with 
wondering veneration. Each face looked brighter for 
her coming, but Mary refused the pressing offer “to 
please walk in and sit down.” She remained standing 
where the doorway framed her like a picture. 

“Not to-night,” she said pleasantly. “I have work 
to do and it is getting late. Besides, Mrs. Cray has 
plenty of friends now.” 

Once more her eyes traveled to the window, but Mrs. 
Benn was no longer to be seen. 

Although the women wanted her to stay, they instinct- 
ively breathed more freely as she turned to go. A 


MARY 


chorus of voices murmured, “Good-night, miss,” in 
rather timid tones. Mrs. Jones opened her lips to join 
in the general farewell, but no sound came, and closing 
them again in silence, she clutched convulsively at her 
breast, where the tiny scrap of blue material lay con- 
cealed. 

Mary moved away so softly that her footfall made 
no sound upon the step as she vanished into the village 
street. 

“I know why she left the cloak behind,” said the 
neighbor from King’s Bench Cottages. 

Mrs. Cray held the garment to her heart, and her 
bright smile puzzled the little assembly almost as much 
as Mary’s had done in the dignity and grandeur of her 
calm beauty. 

“So do I,” murmured the widow. 

Mrs. Jones turned eagerly to the first speaker, an- 
ticipating her words. 

“It was because,” she gasped, “the lady knew it could 
heal and help, and she did not begrudge me my bit of the 
charm.” 

Triumph rang in this assertion from one who seldom 
spoke with authority, for the frail body already felt 
strengthened, as the power of conviction refreshed its 
weary fiber. 

“Not a bit of it,” replied the woman of sense, her feet 
planted upon the sure ground of common reason as she 
looked disdainfully at Mrs. Jones’ glistening eyes, in 
which tears of joy were gathering. “Don’t run away 
with any such idea. Of course Miss Aquila wasn’t going 
to take the thing back once you had spoiled it, cutting 
out bits like them American travelers who knock pieces 
off monuments and make havoc of the good old graves 
at Abbotts Brooke. Why, you had only to look at Miss 


MARY’S LONG BLUE CLOAK 


133 


Aquila to see she was not likely to wear rags. The cloak 
was no use to her, so she wouldn’t bother to carry it 
home.” 

They gathered round the window to watch Mary’s 
graceful figure drifting away in the distance. It was 
nearing the Lion’s Claw, and soon the blue of her gown 
would brighten in the garish light from those plate- 
glass windows. She would pass beneath the hanging 
sign of a forest monster, holding in its claws the lifeless 
body of a young roe ; she would be close to Sam’s mother 
— possibly they would meet face to face. 

“The great red building must seem to Miss Aquila 
like a den of lions waiting hungrily for prey, sought 
from the devil and not from God,” said the widow with 
a sigh. “I guess she’ll cross over the road to avoid Mrs. 
Benn.” 

But Mrs. Jones shook her head, adding confidently: 
“She doesn’t look the one to pass by on the other side, 
and she told us she had work to do.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 

M RS. BENN spent the afternoon shopping in 
Egham with a sense of pride and self-respect 
which recalled the happy days before her widowhood. 
She was determined, if possible, to purchase the neces- 
sary clothing with such a brave show of economy that 
she might boast a little money in hand when appearing 
the following morning at Mary’s cottage. 

Seldom had Mrs. Benn walked with a lighter step. 
Her face veritably glowed with happiness at the inspir- 
ing idea of endeavor. She tried to think that Miss 
Aquila, the woman who stole Sam, the woman with the 
sure belief in his mother’s reform, moved invisibly at her 
side with words of encouragement. The afternoon quest 
for a suitable wardrobe seemed blessed by singular good 
fortune. Had Mrs. Benn believed in the rise of a lucky 
star, she could not have doubted that some fortunate 
planet shone high in the heavens, guiding her course. 

Bargains were waiting ready for her to procure, shop 
assistants apparently knew her requirements almost be- 
fore she spoke, while the fine weather made window- 
gazing enticing. 

As she returned from her successful pilgrimage the 
village brought back sharply to her mind the memory of 
recent degradation. How familiar to wend her way 
toward the well-known Claw, to shelter within its fa- 
134 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 135 


miliar walls and enjoy the refreshment which brought 
her to moral and financial ruin ! In future, she knew, 
she must put the old life behind, not for a moment let- 
ting her eyes wander to the brightly painted door — 
never again allowing her feet to cross the threshold, 
though the desire be great and the craving strong. 

“It’s good-bye to the Claw,” she murmured beneath 
her breath. “Kings’ mothers must keep themselves to 
themselves. Kings’ mothers !” 

She laughed shortly. The whimsical idea appeared in 
such a thoroughly humorous light that the laugh ended 
in a chuckle of genuine amusement as Mrs. Benn paused 
to press both hands to her sides with an expressive “Oh, 
Lor’!” 

It was early to go back to the lonely, comfortless 
home, so she walked on leisurely, continuing the same 
line of thought: 

“A nice young lady that Miss Aquila, but talks a lot 
of nonsense in her spare time. I wonder where she gets 
such notions from. Me a king’s mother, me, buying 
second-hand clothes from old Mrs. Jugg, me, with my 
toes out of my boots. Well, to-morrow the king’s 
mother has a print dress to step into as spick and span 
as any slavey’s, and she is going to clean out the young 
king’s house on her knees and do the charing just as 
well as ever she can. To-morrow !” 

Here Mrs. Benn paused, for conscience whispered it 
would have been wiser to turn in at her gate, instead of 
proceeding up the street, toward temptation and the old 
disastrous haunt. 

“Maybe,” she said, lingering outside the public house 
and feeling the few spare coins in her pocket, “that the 
lady meant I wasn’t to go to the Claw after to-day. I 
can’t remember as she mentioned specially about this 


136 


MARY 


evening. I shan’t be wearln’ the new clothes till to- 
morrow, and she said ’twas best to start a new life in 
new things. To begin now, in these old togs, wouldn’t 
be best if her words were true.” 

This philosophy appeared so pleasing that Mrs. Renn 
smiled again, with an alluring sense of belief in her own 
self-deception. Already she was near the swinging glass 
door, from which, in the early evening, a peculiarly 
bright lamp sent forth inviting rays across the narrow 
village path. Her steps at first had been slow and hesi- 
tating, but quickened perceptibly as she remembered the 
money saved through careful expenditure during the 
afternoon. She no longer wished to feel Mary’s pres- 
ence at her side, but banished the thought nervously, 
shaking it off with a rebellious effort. To-morrow she 
would do all the bidding of the lady in blue, but to-night 
old clothes still hung upon Mrs. Benn’s emaciated frame, 
while the old habits called with fierce persistency and 
alluring love notes. It was the unholy passion of a 
soiled life wooing her as she hastened forward in soiled 
garments. She felt drawn, compelled, ruled. The blood 
coursed through her veins hotly, and the money, now 
grasped in her burning palm, seemed like a living touch. 
She walked hand in hand with an enemy whom she hailed 
as friend. 

“Just to-night for the last time,” she murmured. 
“The lady will never know. Sam will never know. One 
can’t break off all at once. Only to-night, and then I’ll 
be different, then I’ll serve her honest and get back the 
boy.” 

Mary’s gentle personality seemed far away like the 
sunlight of the morning. That peaceful hour in the 
fresh white cottage was only a distant dream now, and 
the music of a cheering voice but the memory of long 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 137 

ago. The mother forgot her child’s kingdom as she fell 
beneath the attraction of a more powerful magnet. 
The memory of a boy in a spotless suit, with wondering 
blue eyes, standing by a stranger who smiled upon him 
sweetly, faded before the artificial light gleaming from 
the Lion’s Claw. 

Mrs. Benn felt her throat grow parched and dry as 
she looked up the road, hoping she was unobserved. 
The mad thirst was upon her with all the fury of domin- 
ion. So fixed were her thoughts upon this one object 
of attainment, she had not seen the people gathered in 
Mrs. Cray’s front parlor, though she passed close to the 
open window. Now, as Sam’s mother stood beneath the 
shadow of the Claw, she fancied an invisible arm drew 
her back, pinning her against the wall. For a moment 
she stood paralyzed, trying to recover from the sudden 
shock of this strange, uncanny sensation. Was she 
breathless from sharp walking or had some one really 
touched her? She trembled and felt unnerved as she 
asked herself the question. 

“I want a drop of stimulant to pull me together,” she 
said, wiping her brow. “I’m all of a shake and I don’t 
know why. There’s no one here to lay a hand on me, 
and yet — and yet — I thought ” 

She dared not finish the sentence, but her knees 
knocked together and her feet felt glued to the ground. 

Words spoken earlier in the day re-echoed through 
her brain with startling persistency, words she had no 
wish to remember: 

“I could not allow a drunkard to associate with Sam.” 

The sentence took the form of colored letters shining 
before her eyes in the mellow twilight. 

Yes, Mary had said that. 


138 


MARY 


Then other recollections of the morning came unbid- 
den, like ghosts on the twilight air : 

“Remember the kingdom you have given Sam. A 
mother is the grandest thing on God’s earth. You suf- 
fered and bore a human soul. Is that nothing to be 
proud of?” 

Surely a voice spoke loudly in her ear, yet the path 
remained empty s while the light from the Lion’s Claw 
still twinkled an insidious invitation. 

“Don’t feel very grand,” muttered Mrs. Benn to her- 
self. “But there, I’m not a strong woman, could never 
boast good health. Take the time Sam was born, I 
nearly died then. Perhaps it might ’ave been better — 
better for him and for me.” 

She checked the utterance, making an effort to move 
forward and reach the door, conscious some influence 
forced upon her a sense of opposition stronger even 
than the craving thirst, mightier than the foe which 
drew the widow to her old resort. 

The voice came again, carried by the wind, hovering 
round her like a living presence. 

“I am just going to trust you, that’s all.” 

This time there could be no mistake. It spoke loudly 
to her dazzled brain, the voice she remembered well, yet 
Mrs. Benn was still alone. 

Drops of terrified agony broke out upon her fore- 
head as she pressed her hand to her heart with a little 
groan. 

Yes, Mary had said that. 

Sam’s mother shook her fist at some unseen adver- 
sary, with an effort to throw off the paralyzing sensa- 
tion of fear. At last she realized the nature of the 
voice and grew calmer at the knowledge. 

“It’s my cowardly conscience,” she declared. “If I 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 139 


start fair to-morrow, what can it matter what I do to- 
night? I’m not her servant yet, and Miss Aquila won’t 
know.” 

The words proved comforting, and with their aid 
she braced her mind to defy any further mythical dem- 
onstration, telling herself it was a sign of lunacy to 
hear voices and feel the touch of unseen arms. Reas- 
sured, she smiled at the sound of the laughter within 
and turned to the door without further hesitation. As 
she did so suddenly a blue-clad figure appeared before 
her, standing in her path, looking her straight in the 
face with piercing eyes. As Mrs. Benn met the steady 
gaze, she turned white to her very lips. She tried to 
speak, to make some excuse, but utter confusion held 
her dumb. 

“Good-evening,” said Mary’s pleasant voice, and this 
time it was no imaginary sound. “I am glad we met, 
for I was just thinking of you and hoping your shop- 
ping had proved successful. Come to me early in the 
morning, and then I can show you exactly what I want 
done.” 

Apparently the younger woman had not observed 
that ominous building in the background, appearing 
only conscious of Mrs. Benn’s presence. Had they met 
in the grounds of Rutherwyke the speaker’s manner 
could not have been more calmly trustful. 

The defaulter, utterly unprepared for kindly words, 
could find no answer, but just stared stupidly at the 
sweet smiling features, knowing now that in some in- 
stinctive way she had anticipated Mary’s proximity 
before seeing her. The warning was real; the nearness 
of a guardian angel made itself felt even to the dull and 
clouded brain. 

“I must hurry back to Sam,” continued Miss Aquila 


140 


MARY 


briskly. “He is quite looking forward to your arrival 
in the morning. You see, I have explained to him you 
will be quite a different kind of mother. He is prepared 
to think everybody good and loving since he came to 
the White Cottage.” 

Mary held out her hand, which Mrs. Benn felt forced 
to take, though she knew she was unworthy and in- 
stinctively feared the contact. The firm grip conveyed 
more to the guilty spirit than any words Mary could 
have uttered. It was a hand of friendship drawing the 
waverer back to the firm shores of resolve. It thrilled 
the veins of the arm, sending a magnetic current all 
through that weak, unstable body till it carried a mes- 
sage direct to the soul in darkness. When at last the 
strong fingers relaxed their protecting hold Mrs. 
Benn’s eyes were full of tears, which she winked back 
with a violent jerk of her head. Surely Miss Aquila 
must know what her presence had done for the wavering 
mother, surely she must guess those straying feet had 
wandered again to the edge of a precipice ! All thought 
of the Lion’s Claw was now unutterably distasteful to 
Mrs. Benn as she gasped out a grateful reply: 

“I’ll be with you quite early in the morning, never 
fear ; and, by the way, miss, I have a few shillings over 
from the shopping. I — I’d like to give ’em back to you 
at once.” 

She produced the coins reserved for a final visit to 
the public house and forced them on the giver in fever- 
ish haste. 

Mary gazed at the little pile of silver with a wonder- 
fully happy expression. 

“I see you are clever at shopping, Mrs. Benn, and I 
will keep the change for our Sam’s money-box. I like 
to say ‘our Sam,’ though he belongs so much more to 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 141 


you. I felt, the first moment I saw his sad little face, 
that I must be his guardian until he looked as he was 
meant to look — a bright, sunny, beautiful boy.” 

Mrs. Benn’s heart was too full for speech. She 
could only mutter : “Bless you !” and nod farewell, con- 
scious that all craving for drink had vanished mysteri- 
ously, while the joyful thoughts of the morning came 
back with a rush. Firmly now Sam’s mother walked 
back toward her home, amazed beyond measure at her 
own strength after the unexpected encounter with 
Mary. As she passed Mrs. Cray’s door a thin woman, 
with a deeply lined face, came slowly out, clasping her 
hands tightly on her breast, which heaved with emo- 
tional agitation. Her eyes were cast on the ground, 
her head was bent as if in reverence. She moved with 
the step of the deeply devout when they leave the altar 
rails in a sacramental service. 

Mrs. Benn viewed her curiously, noting her strange 
walk and demeanor. Though their acquaintance was 
but a slight one, she ventured on a question. 

“Been to a prayer meeting?” she asked. 

Mrs. Jones looked up and sighed deeply, but it was 
not a sigh of sorrow. 

“No,” she replied and would have moved on without 
further explanation, since Mrs. Benn was distinctly 
unpopular with her neighbors, who resented her treat- 
ment of the boy and frequent visits to the Lion’s Claw. 
But Sam’s mother refused to be shaken off so easily. 
She longed for human companionship and sympathy. 

“Heard any news?” she asked, keeping pace with the 
little old woman. 

Mrs. Jones shook her head. 

“Not likely to. Nobody tells me news these times; 
I’m very much alone. It was only by chance I got wind 


142 


MARY 


of the cloak through one of the children who runs 
errands for me when my rheumatism is extra bad.” 

Mrs. Benn was too full of her own affairs to inquire 
the meaning of the words as she eagerly detailed her 
recent good fortune. 

“I’ve had some work offered me, which I am real glad 
to accept, for I think it may just about save my reason ! 
I brood a lot, and sorrowing for the dead don’t do any 
one no good. I am going to look after a house in the 
Rutherwyke grounds, where the new lady gardener 
lives.” 

Mrs. Jones started so violently that her hands un- 
clasped and fell to her sides. She looked excitedly now 
at her despised* neighbor with growing wonder and in- 
credulous surprise. 

“You are going to Rutherwyke?” she gasped. “You 
are going to mind the White Cottage for Miss Aquila? 
Can you be speaking truth?” 

Mrs. Benn smiled triumphantly, amused at the amaze- 
ment her statement produced in the mind of the woman 
whose eyes were alight suddenly with unexpected fire. 

“Seems funny, don’t it? No one expected to see me 
starting off to service again. But I begin to-morrow; 
I’ve a smart rig-out and all, there’s no mistake. It’s a 
case of turning over a new leaf, making a fresh start. 
I mean to give up the Claw ; went by there just now, but 
did I go in ? Rather not ! It’s a low place, I tell you, 
and I’ve got to be careful and keep my situation.” 

She spoke with boastful assurance, unable to conceal 
the pride of conquest as she thought of her recent vic- 
tory and the boy Mary called a king. 

Mrs. Jones drew nearer and placed a trembling hand 
on Mrs. Benn’s worn sleeve. At present it seemed im- 
possible she could ever look tidy and respectable, but 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 143 


the little old woman no longer doubted the truth of this 
strange news. 

“It’s just another proof,” she whispered mysteri- 
ously, “another proof sure enough! It might convince 
even the most unbelieving.” 

The words were spoken with such awe that they thor- 
oughly aroused Mrs. Benn’s curiosity. With wrinkled 
brow she puzzled a moment in silence over their possible 
meaning, then, finding no clue, turned inquiringly to 
the speaker: 

“I can’t say as I follow what you are driving at, Mrs. 
Jones. Perhaps you would kindly make yourself 
clear.” 

A pause followed, then the one who had faith in 
Mary’s powers to cure ills and bind up broken hearts 
drew courage for a startling announcement. She spoke 
low and breathlessly, glancing from right to left to 
make sure no one was in earshot. 

“Maybe, Mrs. Benn, you missed all the talk to-day; 
probably you didn’t hear about her very clothes having 
healing properties? Oh! Miss Aquila is not the same 
as other people ; you get Mrs. Cray to tell. I don’t say 
they know it up at Rutherwyke yet. Mind you, in the 
Bible, the Lord revealed things to babes that He hid 
from the wise and prudent. We poor folk have found 
her out precious quick, just as she has found us out in 
our afflictions and troubles. Don’t you be in too great 
a hurry, but wait, and you’ll discover in time what I 
mean. You look at her as I looked. I don’t say you 
will see just what I saw. Not every one is given the 
same vision, not every one is ready, I take it, for a reve- 
lation. Perhaps you needed another kind of help ; 
seems to me she knew that. Asking you to excuse my 
plain speaking this once, folks in our parts don’t often 


MARY 


144 

see you come by the Claw without popping in. Some- 
body made you pass that door, somebody stronger than 
yourself.” 

The truth of the words drove home. Mrs. Benn 
stared, with widely extended eyes, at the woman who 
framed these undisputed facts in a tone of sure con- 
viction. Gradually she began to realize that possibly 
Mary had not, after all, appeared just by chance at the 
very moment of temptation. Mary may have known 
and understood, rebuking only with those far-seeing 
eyes which laid the soul bare. 

“I take it you are alluding to Miss Aquila?” 

Mrs. Jones nodded as she caught the tremulous 
whisper. 

“I take it I am.” 

Mrs. Benn had reached her cottage. She cast a 
doubtful glance at the unwashed windows and strip of 
ill-kept garden, feeling, for the first time, ashamed of 
their forlorn appearance. 

“Won’t you come in?” she pleaded. “I want to ’ear 
all you’ve got to say, quiet like, and I don’t fancy being 
alone just now; I’m feeling a bit scared. I cleaned up 
my room before I went out ; the place isn’t so bad inside. 
I’ll be glad to make you a cup of tea and perhaps you 
could tell me some more about Miss Aquila.” 

Mrs. Jones hesitated. For months past no respect- 
able woman cared to be seen crossing that threshold or 
speaking to Mrs. Benn. But Mary had wrought a 
change, Mary had made it possible. 

“Thank you kindly. It seems nice to be able to talk 
of her to some one, especially now, since we’ve both seen 
her to-day and formed our own opinions. It’s my belief 
this is only the beginning ; it’s my belief that soon ” 

But she broke off, putting her finger to her lips as 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 145 


a little group of workmen came tramping along the 
path. Then she added softly: 

“Yes, indoors, quiet like, not here, where the folks are 
abroad catching what passes and making comments. 
There are things one must say in private, you know, 
things not to be named before those who scoff and can- 
not see with the eye of understanding.” 

The two women passed under Mrs. Benn’s porch and 
the door closed. Only the men looked back and mut- 
tered with a short laugh: “Sober for once!” 

In the distance the Lion’s Claw at the top of the hilly 
street stood silhouetted against the sky, and beyond, 
toward Pilgrim’s Way, Mary was nearing Rutherwyke, 
her new home. 

Matthew watched her pass, but could find no excuse 
to speak or join her. He left his tea and meat untasted, 
while Hettie, still sulky and puzzled by his attitude, 
went up to see her sleeping boys. Tenderly she bent 
over them, thinking of the previous evening, when Mary 
stood by the little cots, looking down with such loving 
eyes on the small sweet faces. Afterward, too, when she 
explained the meaning of the Gabriel bell, Hettie’s heart 
had quickened with some strange, unusual fervor. Now 
she moved instinctively to the window, lingering just 
where Mary’s shadow fell as she recited the words of 
those mysterious chimes. In vain Hettie tried to recall 
the exact sentences, wishing they were written down that 
she might read them when the bell sounded. She liked 
to dwell upon those few brief twilight moments with the 
stranger whose voice fell on her ear like music and whose 
presence filled the room with light and gladness. 

“The chimes tell,” she murmured, “of an angel com- 
ing suddenly to the Virgin Mary and blessing her and 
saying she was to pray for sinners, yet Miss Aquila 


146 MARY 

looked sad as she said the words. It seemed as if she 
disapproved.” 

Hettie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. 

“Fast, I suppose,” she murmured and waited for the 
sound of the distant Gabriel bell. Silence reigned in the 
still house, silence reigned outside, for the birds had 
gone to roost and the road below was empty. 

Presently she put her head through the door and 
called in a low voice to Matthew : 

“What’s the time? The clock up here seems all 
wrong.” 

For a moment he felt inclined to ignore the question 
or answer rudely, she had best come down and look for 
herself. Then he thought of the children in bed, and, 
fearing an altercation might disturb them, replied 
moodily : “Ten past seven.” 

Hettie forgot her sleeping twins as she re-echoed the 
words in shrill, unguarded accents : 

“Ten past seven ! Never! Are you sure?” 

She came running down the stairs with a clatter of 
high heels. 

“Yes. What’s all the fuss about?” 

Hettie stood looking at him with her lips slightly 
parted and her hands pressed together. 

“There must be something wrong up at Rutherwyke,” 
she said. “The Gabriel bell has not rung for the first 
time this many a year. I listened for it to-night par- 
ticularly. Somehow to-day I seemed thinking of the 
meaning which came new to me last evening, and when I 
woke this morning I tried to recall what Miss Aquila 
had said. I was dreaming that the bell repeated her 
name over and over again.” 

Matthew, who had just sat down to light a pipe and 
read a paper, sprang to his feet. 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 147 

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Are you quite sure it 
didn’t ring?” 

Hettie nodded a violent assent, which made her sham 
tortoise-shell pins shoot from the rolls of hair piled high 
on an overtowering pad. 

Already Matthew was out again in the road. 

“Porterton always rings it,” he Said, “only at times 
he leaves a note in the potting shed or somewhere, asking 
me to be responsible. I oblige him when I can, if it’s 
inconvenient to be back by seven. It is as much as his 
place is worth to forget that bell. The master listens 
sharp enough and expects it as regularly as his meals. 
Porterton will trust no one but me with the job, and he 
always sends to know if I got the note. I’ll run up to 
Rutherwyke straight away and inquire. Somebody will 
be blamed, for if Mr. Penreath gets a fad into his head, 
it takes him badly, and he is especially cranky on this 
subject.” 

The occurrence completely banished from Matthew’s 
mind his quarrel with Hettie, and he waved a friendly 
hand as he started off at a brisk pace in the direction of 
the garden. 

At Rutherwyke Place the absence of the usual chimes 
caused general consternation. Josephine hastened to 
her husband’s studio and burst in with the news. “Por- 
terton has not sounded the Gabriel bell,” she said, a note 
of keen anxiety in her voice. “I am afraid he must be 
ill. I wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds — you 
know why.” 

Arrow looked at her long and steadily, then he said in 
a voice so low and controlled that it momentarily calmed 
her nerves and stilled the wild beating of her heart : 

“Porterton never forgets. The bell was not rung to- 
night by my orders.” 


148 


MARY 


Josephine could hardly believe the cold, calculating 
words came from her husband and stared at him as if 
some other man had spoken through his lips. Then 
suddenly her usual reserve gave way before a storm of 
unexplained passion and bitter resentment. Until this 
moment she little guessed that the sounding of the 
Gabriel bell had become in her mind an overpowering 
superstition, a note of pleasure when she woke, a sooth- 
ing music at eventide. 

“Arrow,” she cried, angry with him for the first time 
in all her married years, “is it possible you ordered the 
bell not to be rung and never told me ? Surely you must 
have realized how upset and frightened I should be. I 
have warned you often enough that when the bell 
stopped, its silence would mean the coming of disaster to 
us and to our house. I have felt this always, only lately 
the conviction has taken a stronger hold.” 

She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and breathed 
hard. He could see the swift rise and fall of her bodice, 
on which a gleaming diamond cross lay. Her face be- 
came suddenly so alive with emotional upheaval that its 
very intensity appealed to his love of all that was vital 
and startling in life. She had developed, with alarming 
rapidity, from the gentle Josephine of his happy work- 
ing days into a new character-study, with primitive be- 
liefs and wild, unstable fears. He came nearer and 
placed his hands on her shoulders, hearing her repeat 
under her breath : 

“I have felt this always — always.” 

Despite her obvious suffering, he could not help smil- 
ing at such a childish exhibition of dread. 

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, and his voice 
sounded very lenient, as if arguing with one mentally 
and physically weak. He saw the tears gleaming in her 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 149 


eyes, he heard the sob that broke in her throat. She 
answered with head still drooping and shoulders bent 
beneath his touch: 

“I don’t know — that is the worst of it — I think really 
I am frightened chiefly because I don’t know. I have 
felt overwhelmed and nervous ever since I first saw Mary. 
It was very cruel, after what I said this morning, to — 
to give me an extra shock to-night.” 

For a moment he tried to recall their conversation on 
that very spot earlier in the day, when the sun danced in 
at the windows, mocking superstitious terrors and put- 
ting them to shame. 

“Let me see, what did you say?” he murmured pen- 
sively. 

Josephine had forgotten the exact words, and in her 
effort to remember the falling tears ceased and the 
terror faded from her face. 

“I told you, did I not, that I thought there was some 
strange mystery about Mary? I spoke of the weird 
psychological effect she had upon me — how when I felt 
warm, the warmth apparently came from her, and after- 
ward — when my flesh began to creep — I fancied I was 
walking with a person who was not real.” 

Arrow smoothed his wife’s hair, looking into her 
troubled eyes with an expression of concern. 

“Ah! yes, it all comes back to me now, but once I 
began to work it passed from my mind as a folly not 
worth considering. I hardly thought you spoke in 
earnest. As to the Gabriel bell, why, often I’ve heard 
you joking about it to strangers. You told an evan- 
gelical visitor it was rung for the servants’ meals just 
the other day. He quite believed you, and thought you 
only allowed them early breakfast and supper at seven.” 

Arrow tried to laugh away her fit of depression. He 


150 


MARY 


felt somewhat ashamed to think he had forgotten his 
wife’s fears and theories, while Mary’s words lived in 
his mind with a clearness that was almost uncanny. 
Again and again throughout the day he fancied he 
heard the voice of the newcomer saying in that strangely 
arresting manner : “I do not like the Gabriel bell.” 

Josephine’s sudden apprehension lessened under Ar- 
row’s smile. 

“But still,” she said, “I can’t understand why a prac- 
tice of years should cease to-day. There must be some 
reason for it, Arrow.” 

He glanced at his sketches of the passion flowers 
gathered early that morning, well pleased with his treat- 
ment of their tender color and mysterious form. 

“You know,” he murmured, “my picture of the Ma- 
donna is to be the Mary who desires no worship, the 
Mary who shrinks back, with hands raised deprecat- 
ingly, as if to ward off a great flood of misdirected wor- 
ship. Her face implores the world to pass her over, to 
spare her the veneration for which she was never in- 
tended. She is appalled to find herself a gold-crowned 
saint decked in rich robes, to know that the world’s chil- 
dren bow the knee to her, a simple handmaid, whose per- 
sonal history lies in shadow, unrecorded save by a few 
brief sentences in the inspired Word. To paint a picture 
that arrests the public imagination and carries a mes- 
sage one must always live in the subject conditionally. 
The first step toward this new idea of mine was to lessen 
the injustice of forcing homage upon an unwilling queen, 
to respect the humble, retiring attitude of one who was 
verily blessed among women, though meek and glori- 
ously simple.” 

A light broke over Josephine’s face. “I sec,” she 
whispered — “oh! I see it all now. It comforts me to 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 151 


hear the explanation. I must try not to mind, but to 
think about the picture instead. Perhaps it will be the 
greatest work of your life.” 

He dared not tell her that Mary Aquila’s words in- 
fluenced him to change the old custom he had grown to 
love, rather he wished Josephine to believe the idea was 
all his own. In silencing the bell he was paving the way 
to gaining a wish which gradually developed into a 
strong and masterful desire. The newcomer should sit 
to him, whatever her objections. He vowed in his heart 
he would never rest until he won her consent and also 
her sympathy. She must be willing to show in her eyes 
the passion of rebellion, unconsciously revealed that 
morning. All day he had felt the thrill of her strongly 
expressed theory, which in time should develop, through 
his genius, into color and being. 

More than once he unconsciously repeated a brief 
prayer taught him by an old Catholic nurse when a 
child : 

“Oh! Mary, mother of all grace, parent of mercy, 
protect us from our cruel foe, receive us in death’s hour 
of woe.” 

As if in answer, he said the words he fancied this 
Mary of the canvas would cry to those who prayed, 
said them to stimulate his mind as he painted and drew 
the mental picture of a tortured Madonna : “I cannot 
protect you, for I am not God. I cannot receive you, 
since other arms are stretched out — waiting, stronger, 
surer, safer arms, wherein the soul may find a refuge. 
If I could give redemption, why did the Child of my 
womb suffer His holy Passion? I am no gate of the 
High King, for He Himself is the door, the invitation, 
the feast, the fount of joy eternal. You pierce Him 
with the sharp sword of doubt, you mistrust His gentle 


153 MARY 

call when you pray aloud to me : ‘Holy Mother, inter- 
cede for us.’ ” 

Josephine looked up into her husband’s face, unable 
to read what was passing there, conscious his thoughts 
were far away and that her interruption had proved 
unwelcome. 

“I am sorry,” she whispered, “for my betrayal of 
weakness. I never knew I was superstitious until to- 
night.” 

Arrow patted her shoulder soothingly. 

“Oh ! yes,” he replied, “you knew it this morning. I 
think we have experienced a superstitious day. You 
were a prophet of evil too, you spoke of disaster coming 
to our house and all because you were a little puzzled 
by Miss Aquila.” 

Josephine realized the truth of the remark. 

“Perhaps I shall get used to Mary soon,” she said, 
with an effort at brightness, too forced to deceive Ar- 
row. “Probably in time I shall see things more clearly 
and understand the woman whom Constance Eastlake 
described as absolutely trustworthy and able to exert 
an extraordinary influence for good.” 

Mrs. Penreath was thinking of the letter in which 
the lady gardener had been so thoroughly recommended. 
She wondered if Arrow would remember the heat from 
the singing flames drawing the sheet of paper from her 
hands, to bury it in the bosom of ruddy fire. She could 
not forget how clearly the name “Mary” stood out in 
letters of gold before their astonished eyes, and longed 
to ask her husband if he also recalled the incident. But 
she kept the question back. He might think her too 
fanciful after her recent display of nerves. 

“Then I suppose,” she said, “the Gabriel bell will not 
ring to-morrow?” 


THE VOICE OF AN OLD FRIEND 153 

He shook his head, while his lips framed a wordless 
“no.” 

“Never again?” she queried, and her voice sounded 
sorrowful. 

“Never again,” repeated her husband in a tone of 
finality. 

Josephine sighed. 

“I wish I had known this morning. It is like hearing 
the voice of an old friend, without realizing that voice 
has spoken for the last time. Afterward you yearn for 
just one word to treasure above all others. How I 
should have listened had I known !” 

Arrow smiled away her despondency. 

“When you see the picture,” he declared with that 
triumphant belief in his own powers which paved the 
way to success, “you will realize that the bell had to be 
silent, that it grew dumb for a great purpose, and the 
sacrifice was not in vain.” 

“Shall I?” said Josephine. 

His cheerful look confirmed the words. 

“Yes, and Mary Aquila is to sit for me. We begin 
to-morrow.” 

He made the statement boldly. It was more than a 
guess; it amounted to conviction, filling him with a 
pleasurable sensation of attainment. 

“Oh! then she has consented?” queried Josephine, not 
concealing her astonishment as she remembered the defi- 
nite refusal of the morning. “Do tell me how you man- 
aged to work the oracle so quickly?” 

Arrow was arranging his brushes, and she thought 
the question failed to reach his ear. She did not repeat 
it, for she saw he looked exceptionally weary. 

“I am very glad,” she declared softly. “I ought not 
to be surprised, for you always get your own way in the 


154 


MARY 


end. I feared she was entirely opposed to sitting. You 
could not find a better model for your conception of the 
Madonna. Mary’s eyes are wonderfully speaking and 
true ; then the spirituality of her face is, if possible, even 
greater than its beauty. Catch the spirit, and you will 
do an extraordinary piece of work.” 

Arrow listened, then left the studio without replying, 
moving silently away with tired tread. 

Perhaps he was ashamed of that bold statement, “We 
begin to-morrow,” lest Josephine should discover it had 
been spoken without foundation. What if Mary disap- 
pointed him, meeting his persuasions with a firm, uncom- 
promising “no”? How could he face the death of those 
hopes which rose so high, bringing before his dazzled 
eyes the vision of success? In the past the world had 
hailed him famous, but at heart he knew the golden lad- 
der stretched high above his head to dizzy pinnacles of 
desire. At present pictures were pictures and little else, 
but he had dreams of breathing into art the true, the 
deathless spirit of divinity. With dogged decision he 
repeated again, “We begin to-morrow,” then added fer- 
vently : “God knows we must !” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE FIRST SITTING 

T O Arrow’s surprise, the following morning Mary 
sought him of her own free will, and her first 
words were those of genuine gratitude, spoken without 
shyness or hesitation. ' 

“Vines told me I should find you here,” she said, “and 
I wanted to thank you for something you did to please 
me yesterday. I thought it very considerate, very 
kind.” 

The artist was pacing up and down the Monk’s Walk 
for ten minutes’ sharp exercise before his work in the 
studio. He preferred taking a brief constitutional in 
the grounds of Rutherwyke to wandering far afield, 
knowing well that once he passed the iron gates he laid 
himself open to public scrutiny and the boring overtures 
of so-called friends. Being a popular personality, he 
was almost bound to encounter some acquaintance eager 
to catch the pearls that fell from the lips of genius. 
His most commonplace utterance would be twisted into 
a witticism or bon mot. Arrow realized that if by 
chance a congenial topic should be started, a sudden 
flow of eloquence would carry him away, annihilating all 
memory of time, stealing the precious daylight from his 
easel, making him forget the task at home. So putting 
aside temptation or the risk of boredom, he remained 
safely within his little world of tree and blossom. 

155 


156 


MARY 


Often he found himself sincerely pitying his less for- 
tunate brethren, who possessed no kingdom of their 
own, no garden sanctuary, where grand old trees raised 
mighty arms on high and flowered acres gave their lav- 
ish treasures of bloom, color and scent to decorate the 
daily lives of those who reared and loved them. 

Now he looked curiously at Mary, feeling, during the 
hours of darkness, he had partially forgotten that 
strangely spiritual and illuminating beauty. Once more 
it burst upon him with something of shock — pleasurable, 
exciting, mysterious, elusive. He recalled all Josephine 
had. said and no longer marveled at his wife’s hysterical 
mood. An imaginative woman might well see in Mary 
many unusual and almost unearthly attributes. 

“I am glad,” he replied, “that I was able to please 
you. I pondered over your words and resolved to rever- 
ence them, with the result I forbade the Angelus to be 
rung again while Rutherwyke belongs to me. I sacri- 
ficed my darling fad, my favorite fancy not without a 
struggle. A friend’s voice, a household superstition was 
silenced forever, because you so frankly gave me your 
reasons for disliking the Gabriel bell. Perhaps you did 
not know you gave me something else as well. Can you 
guess what it was ?” 

A faint pink flush glowed over Mary’s mother-of- 
pearl skin. She answered frankly enough, though by her 
manner she appeared slightly embarrassed. 

“I gave you a new idea for your work,” she replied 
with conviction. “You are going to help my crusade 
in a far better way than by silencing those chimes with 
their morning and evening prayer. You are going to 
preach the lesson through the power of your brush, 
through pictured lips which your genius alone can make 
alive. They will speak to the hearts, if not to the ears, 


THE FIRST SITTING 


157 

of all who see your canvas. You are going to paint the 
Mary I described to you, suffering the weight of mis- 
directed supplication, the Mary who cannot give and 
cannot answer, the Mary who is outraged at finding her- 
self in the place of Divinity. This Mary is to come into 
the world through your power of expression, through 
the brush of inspiration and the pulpit of the picture.” 

Her words stirred the blood in Arrow’s veins as 
vividly as they imaged before him the scene he would call 
into being. With startling clearness he could trace the 
whole preconceived scheme. A woman standing by a 
rude shrine, cut in a wall or hewn in the niche of a 
rugged cliff, the work of unskilled hands, containing a 
grotesque and brightly colored image of the Virgin 
Mary. The woman gazes in horror at the stars on the 
gaudy robe, at the large necklace and overpowering 
crown. Her face has blanched with scorn and agonized 
rebellion. She — the real Mother, the materialized Ma- 
donna — shrinks back appalled at this travesty of her 
simple womanhood, while with hands outstretched she 
tries to shake off the prayers which throng upon her, 
the entreaties she is powerless to grant. A moving and 
painful picture, one which the artist knew might offend 
and wound, one which might ruin his popularity, one 
which might lift him high above the criticism of the 
world. 

“If I help you,” said Arrow slowly, speaking as if 
each word were of paramount importance, “you must 
contribute your share, you must not draw back or shirk 
the responsibility. Remember you have inspired the 
idea. No face could say what your eyes expressed to me 
yesterday, when I disputed with you for the pure pleas- 
ure of argument. Later on my wife brought you a 
message. She asked you to be my model, and I under- 


158 


MARY 


stand you practically declined. To-day I ask you again 
(without fear of a refusal) to represent that very same 
Mary you yourself described and help me catch the 
spirit of the teaching. With your influence and aid I 
may paint the masterpiece of my life, without your help 
I stand apart — undone. It is for you to decide — you 
who are clever enough to know that through the eye the 
garden of the soul may be cultivated. Surely these 
Rutherwyke grounds can spare you for a few hours 
each day to do your wider work, to reach far — so far 
beyond its walls. You are unselfish and will understand 
that the picture can only be attempted by the co-opera- 
tion of its originator. You fired me with your own 
enthusiasm. You planted the seed in my mind. From 
the mere germ of a thought, it developed to a great 
ambition.” 

Mary listened with a glad smile. Was it merely fancy 
or were the birds raising their shrill songs to higher 
notes of exaltation? The long line of silver trees in 
the Monk’s Walk looked strangely ethereal with the 
pale morning haze drifting over their shapely foliage. 
At last she said : 

“If I can be of use, if indeed you want my help, then 
I must give it gladly in return for your sacrifice of the 
Gabriel bell. Perhaps you are right and the work could 
not be done without me. Yesterday it would have been 
possible, but yesterday you were merely contemplating 
an allegorical picture, thinking, as you have thought a 
hundred times before, of the work for fame’s sake and 
the whole joy of success. To-day a nobler element is 
permeating your wish to achieve. You feel you must 
give out the best that is in you for the sake of a dead 
woman sadly misunderstood. Could she come back she 
would thank you — knowing your desire was pure, 


THE FIRST SITTING 


159 


prompted by no worldly motive. She would remember 
that the man who silenced the bell was her champion and 
give you her woman’s blessing from a grateful heart.” 

The words were hardly breathed above a whisper and 
came with a compelling power, as though from some 
source of hidden knowledge. They stirred the artist 
strangely, bringing before his mental vision the Mary 
who would thank him, but the voice and eyes were still 
those of Mary Aquila, gentle, pleading, infinitely per- 
suasive. 

For a moment he made no answer, then turned with 
one of those quick gestures with which he habitually 
emphasized his statements. 

“It’s time,” he said, “that some one tried to show her 
as she is, apart from imaginary literature and gaudy 
paintings. She has been victimized too long by the mis- 
representation of centuries. She must speak for herself, 
she must rise above the man-made legends, invented by 
human minds to destroy her real spirit. After all, how 
little they know, how little we know. Her great work of 
maiden-motherhood makes but brief history in the Bible. 
It is passed over so quickly, we are left unsatisfied, 
thirsting for more. When the wonderful Christmas 
story has been told, she resumes her simple life unat- 
tended by the appearance of angels, returning from the 
manger to her humble abode. There she takes up the 
duties of the world, the grind of poverty, the daily cares 
of home, little dreaming that throughout the ages she 
will stand as an object of devotion. My painting will 
reveal her wonder, surprise, sorrow, despair as she sees 
the pilgrims kneeling at her shrine, sees them, but can- 
not bid them go. Therein lies the whole tragedy of my 
picture. She fights against her glory in vain ; she falls 


160 MARY 

crushed beneath countless ages of error and supersti- 
tion.” 

He watched Mary’s face as he spoke, watched it with 
an artist’s eye, noting the changing expression, the col- 
oring, the character. Already in his brain he com- 
menced his difficult work; these were no idle moments, 
though they walked over the moss-grown path in the 
heat-mist of the morning. He loved the subject of 
which he spoke; it arrested his imagination, making 
strong appeals. 

“Some of the old stories,” he continued, seeing she 
listened attentively, “were quite cruel ; they represented 
the Virgin as an avenging angel, working vindictive 
spells. One I remember tells how she appeared at Thet- 
ford to a poor woman and commanded her to warn the 
prior he must build a chapel on the north side of the 
choir in the parish church of St. Mary. The woman 
is supposed, for some unexplained reason, to have 
neglected the message, and the legend runs that the Vir- 
gin came again by night and much blamed her for over- 
looking the command, touching her arm, which imme- 
diately became paralyzed. Then the woman woke, and 
running to the monk, told him her misfortune. He ad- 
vised her to offer an arm made of wax to the Holy 
Mother, which being done, her own arm was speedily 
restored.” 

Mary listened with a faint smile. Arrow noticed that 
she accepted all he told her as if she had known it long 
before, yet her face was full of interest and sympathy. 
He wondered she made no comment on the story. 

“When would you like me to sit?” she asked. “I hope 
it won’t take all my time from the garden. There is so 
much to be done, and I came to Rutherwyke full of ideas 


THE FIRST SITTING 161 

for future work. If you can spare me now, I am wanted 
in the orchid house, where Vines is waiting.” 

Arrow, pinned suddenly down to the necessity of 
making plans, felt as if he had been roused from a dream 
dominated by the blue-gowned figure standing between 
the line of conifers. To return to actualities, to touch 
earth again, was positive pain. 

“Oh ! of course we begin at once,” he declared, glanc- 
ing at his watch. “This brief constitutional is the 
tribute I pay to that mundane tyrant digestion. Now 
that I have stirred my blood and breathed the air, for 
the rest of the day I stay in and work.” 

Mary glanced anxiously across the large stretch of 
cultivated ground which lay beyond the Monk’s Walk. 

“But you will let me see Vines first,” she pleaded. “I 
must warn him of my absence and leave some instruc- 
tions for the men. He will have to take the lead while I 
am engaged in the studio. He won’t object, I feel sure. 
He likes a little brief authority and certainly works all 
the better for being ambitious. He confessed to me last 
night he had no idea there was so much to learn; that 
was a great advance and made me very hopeful for his 
future. I dread the man who believes he knows every- 
thing; he is always difficult to deal with. I have long 
since discovered every day gives out its meed of instruc- 
tion. Why, you have taught me a great deal even this 
morning, far more than you could ever guess.” 

Arrow looked pleased. Accustomed as he was to com- 
manding attention, he feared he might seem vapid to 
this new Mary of the garden, with the broad forehead 
and deep eyes of understanding. 

“What have I taught you?” he asked, eager to hear 
more. But instinctively she turned her face from him, 
hastening her steps to avoid answering the question. 


162 


MARY 


He followed her, though he did not ask again what 
lesson she had gleaned from their recent conversation. 
His pride resented her silent attitude. 

“I can give you a quarter of an hour, not a moment 
longer. You know the studio door ; I will be waiting for 
you there.” 

His words were short, sharp, decisive, warning her 
not to delay. 

Mary bowed her head in mute consent. 

“You won’t fail me?” he added almost sternly. 

The answer came at once in the voice that could 
soothe as well as inspire. 

“No, you need not be afraid. Were I to fail, I should 
be very ungrateful.” 

Arrow walked swiftly at her side, still a little ruffled. 

“I always impress punctuality on my models,” he said. 
“When the work-fever lays hold of me, it is terrible to 
be kept waiting. I fear I have the reputation for driv- 
ing hard and expecting too much from human nature. 
I quite exhausted the small boy who posed as Pan in my 
‘Sentiment of Spring.’ By the way, what is happening 
to that child up at the cottage?” 

Faint curiosity stirred in his mind at the sudden 
recollection of Sam. 

“Oh ! the boy is all right, thank you,” replied Mary, 
glancing back over her shoulder, for she had outpaced 
Arrow. “You see, his mother is with him.” 

The artist remembered Josephine telling him that 
Miss Aquila was trying to reform Mrs. Benn. 

“Then I should think,” he retorted, “the poor little 
wretch is anything but all right.” 

Mary paused and pointed in the direction of the 
cottage. 

“If you have any doubt,” she said, “walk down there 


THE FIRST SITTING 


163 


and see for yourself. The door is open ; you can go 
straight in. Sam is already losing his shyness and will 
be delighted to welcome a visitor.” 

She turned in the direction of the conservatories, and 
Arrow, anxious to discover if Mary were right, made 
his way toward her home. As he neared its fresh white 
walls he walked quietly, keeping behind the shade of the 
holly hedge. The spotless cottage in that tranquil cor- 
ner of Rutherwyke appeared an ideal setting for his new 
Madonna. He forgot for the moment it had ever been 
inhabited by the plebeian Mr. and Mrs. Monk with their 
musty furniture and an inborn love for closed windows. 
He saw in it now only the casket that held a jewel fair 
enough to move the great heart of the world to speech- 
less admiration. 

From his hiding-place Arrow could see Mrs. Benn 
kneeling on Mary’s doorstep in a clean print dress, 
busily scrubbing away invisible marks from its spotless 
surface. Beside her a shining pail of soap-suds caught 
the first rays of sun glinting through the mist, and from 
this store of treasure Sam, seated on a three-legged 
stool, blew radiant bubbles on the morning air. He 
looked the very essence of childish content as his large, 
deeply set eyes followed the journey of each transparent 
globe till its thousand colors vanished into the bosom of 
calm, untroubled space. 

He turned to prattle to his mother, explaining the 
various missions of the beauty-balls he blew heavenward. 
Evidently he hoped they would reach the one of whom 
he thought as they fluttered away to carry a wish or 
convey a message. 

“That is for the lady who wore the beads from the 
sea,” he said as Arrow came within earshot, and involun- 
tarily the artist conjured the scene of baby hands 


164 * 


MARY 


clutching Josephine’s pearls and asking for an explana- 
tion of their smooth, mysterious beauty. 

“And this is to tell Mary to come back soon,” he 
cried gleefully as he blew an extra fine specimen in the 
direction of the glass houses. 

Mrs. Benn looked up, and Arrow perceived she was 
smiling widely. 

“Haven’t you one for mother?” she asked. “Mustn’t 
forget mother, you know.” 

Sam dipped his little pipe eagerly into the pail. 

“Oh! yes,” he said, preparing to blow. “She shall 
have a great big, bright one. I’ll send it right away to 
the Lion’s Claw.” 

Triumphantly he set a blue-mauve specimen of fragile 
beauty floating before Mrs. Benn’s uplifted eyes. She 
watched it a moment with parted lips and an expression 
of speechless horror, then her head fell on her breast, 
and Arrow saw that she was crying. 

As she fumbled for a handkerchief, Sam stared won- 
deringly at her falling tears. For a moment he said 
nothing, then suddenly dropped his pipe, and, running 
to her side, flung his small body into her arms, whisper- 
ing words of consolation in her ear. The child realized 
he had hurt the weeping woman, and his youthful mind 
felt troubled, at a loss to know the reason of her sor- 
row. Arrow did not wait to see the conclusion of the 
scene. He felt it was too sacred for the prying eye of 
man and left it to angel witnesses, hoping they would 
record in some great book of love that tear of penitence 
and that piercing look of mother-sorrow. 

When Mary came to the studio he told her he had 
walked to the cottage, merely adding all was well with 
the child. 

“I thought so,” she said cheerfully. “I left the 


THE FIRST SITTING 


165 


mother this morning brushing that wonderful hair of 
his with a very gentle touch, as if she were terribly 
afraid of the ivory brush, a present from Lady Con- 
stance with my name on it in gold. I do not like such 
elaborate things, but she made me keep it, so now I have 
given it to Sam, and he is tremendously proud of the 
possession.” 

Mary was standing by the large stretch of canvas 
which sooner or later would glow to life under the art- 
ist’s brush. 

“Genius is rather like a miracle,” she said. “It’s 
wonderful to look at that plain surface and know you 
can change it into a masterpiece by a special gift which 
raises your work to the mountain heights, above the 
valleys of unskilled labor. Do you ever think of the 
struggling artists who would give their very souls for 
your powers of creation ? So many produce quite good 
work after years of patient study, yet just a faint lack 
of divine inspiration keeps them poor and unknown. 
Their wings are cut and they will never soar. They 
think the world’s determination not to recognize them is 
cruel and unjust, but really the world is so full of its 
own passionate heartbeats, it cannot respond to strained 
sentiment or false beauty. The great lights alone can 
draw and dazzle the crowd; they shine out as planets 
among lesser stars, while the patient, hard-working ma- 
jority merely swell the milky way and are lost in a dim, 
unrecognized throng.” 

Mary spoke sadly and Arrow listened with rapt at- 
tention, as if the words were precious, gleaned from lips 
of authority. Then suddenly he remembered, with a 
start, she was only the lady gardener, speaking her 
thoughts aloud and not attempting to voice any deep or 
particularly original view of life’s obvious tragedies. 


166 


MARY 


He took up a large sheet of foolscap on which he had 
written a description of the picture existing only in his 
brain. 

“This is my idea,” he said. “I have tried to explain 
the attitude, expression and meaning of the central 
figure in the scene which your words first conjured in 
my mind. Read it, and perhaps you will be able to pose 
yourself spontaneously, without my help.” 

Never before had Arrow suggested to any model, 
however skilled, that she should pose herself. 

As a rule he was arbitrary and hard to please. He 
would take a human form as if it were a lay figure, 
twisting and molding it with difficulty to the desired 
shape. Professional models knew from experience or 
hearsay that he was extraordinarily oblivious of the 
comfort of his sitters. However strained their atti- 
tudes, he insisted upon torturous positions being re- 
tained almost beyond human endurance. Yet, to be a 
model of Arrow Penreath’s, was the making of the man 
or woman desiring that particular kind of employment, 
and they seldom resented his harsh treatment. Perhaps 
they divined that the man (who was kindness itself out- 
side the studio) became, when at work, merged in the 
artist. They knew instinctively his whole being was 
controlled by feverish excitement or uncanny exaltation. 
They could see that he utterly forgot his puppets were 
flesh and blood ; they only held for him the personality 
of the picture. When pleased, he would burst into song 
and talk to himself aloud, recognizing no spirit save 
his own, apparently unconscious of their presence. To 
smaller minds this preoccupation was awe-inspiring and 
almost terrible, flashing before the model’s tired eyes 
the revelation of a soul aflame with genius. For such a 


THE FIRST SITTING 167 

spectacle they suffered willingly the great man’s lack of 
consideration. 

As Mary scanned the words put into her hands she 
saw at once the artist merely re-echoed her thoughts, 
building up his picture on the idea she had suggested 
to him, little dreaming it would influence his work. To 
throw herself into the part was easy enough. She 
moved to the platform with the natural grace which 
delighted him, so rare and yet so precious in its subtle 
charm. He watched her with enraptured eyes, his whole 
mind riveted upon every line of her well-poised body. 
He considered himself a judge of beauty at its best, but 
Mary was the most baffling type ever placed beneath the 
microscope of criticism. She was strong, yet ethereal, 
full of startling contrasts. Her face, pale one moment, 
glowed the next with a sudden rush of vivid red. Her 
eyes were always changing in color or expression, unlike 
any he had ever met on earth. They were dream-eyes 
and belonged to the province of unreality or worlds im- 
mortal. She seemed to him like some mysterious being 
materialized from the elements. She was part of the 
summer breeze and sun. He fancied her soul must be 
mated to calm blue depths of the sea or vast azure of 
eternal skies. To love her would mean something more 
than passion or the material ties of earth. Her smile 
kindled the sacred fires of devotion. To love Mary 
would be like loving Nature in her finest mood — the 
ocean tranquil and wide, the high heavens when their 
richest tints shone forth, the leaves catching the light 
through transparent veins, the wind singing softly its 
eerie note from unseen lips. As these tender reveries 
rose before his mental vision, he suddenly realized Mary 
had fallen into the pose, apparently without effort. 
Mary was waiting with the plea on her face which cried 


168 


MARY 


to the world: “Have pity on Joseph’s wife!” The eyes 
looking down upon Arrow from the models’ platform 
not only held vast histories of pain and misrepresenta- 
tion for the one who knew, they spoke with such silent 
eloquence that all who looked might read. The purity 
of the maiden-spirit when the angel Gabriel appeared 
shone in those depths of concentrated light ; the ponder- 
ing of a heart overflowing with the pure devotion of 
motherhood lay revealed to the wondering gaze of men. 
Arrow held his breath as he read the story spoken by 
those large Madonna-like eyes. Mingling with earlier 
impressions came the pain of future watching, when de- 
rision and shame fell heavily on the Son she had so 
miraculously borne. 

Even as Arrow watched Mary’s face it stiffened with 
livid horror, a flood of agony dilating the eyes till 
every feature faded into shadow under their tearless 
misery. They were the eyes of the mother who looked 
upon cruel torture. They were the eyes that saw the 
nails tearing at the dear flesh — once of her body. They 
were the eyes which turned to the disciple when a faint 
voice gently commanded her to behold another son. 

Arrow suddenly gripped his brushes fiercely which a 
moment since he had idly handled. He wanted to make 
sure they were real, for now, as in moments of faint- 
ness, the walls of the studio whirled round, the models’ 
platform looked far away, he felt himself drifting into 
limitless space, yet he was strong of build, robustly con- 
stituted and had never fainted in his life. With an 
effort he pulled himself together while the giddiness 
passed, but still he could see that terrible look on 
Mary’s face, as her eyes stared fixedly at a distant 
object in the long, lofty studio. 

“Please take it away,” she said, and her voice sounded 


THE FIRST SITTING 169 

like a whisper drifting toward him through space. “I 
cannot stay here if you do not take it away.” 

He turned eagerly to inspect his many treasures, 
collected with care, each admitted to his working sanc- 
tum for some special reason or sentiment. 

“Take what away?” he asked. 

She pointed with a trembling hand to a white object 
hung against a deep purple curtain. 

“That crucifix,” she said. 

Arrow went to the carved ivory relic from a foreign 
land and obeyed the request without a word. He read 
in Mary’s eyes the vision of Calvary and knew that she 
possessed the strange power of actually becoming the 
personality the artist wished her to imitate. He looked 
upon this mood as a fortunate piece of self -hypnotism 
on the part of a woman whose whole nature was bound 
together by far-reaching and limitless sympathy. In- 
stinctively he fell in with the dramatic idea, sharing this 
strange and unexpected mood. She was no longer 
merely his model, no longer the lady gardener of Ruth- 
erwyke, but instead he saw her as the outraged saint of 
his picture, a mother come to disown the great position 
her worshipers would force upon her and bid her claim. 

He turned to his easel without a word, feeling it was 
unnecessary to speak the approval his eyes alone ex- 
pressed, and began to sketch in her outline just as she 
stood, all unquestioned, her own attitude, her own 
thought, powerfully guiding the will and the hand of 
the man accustomed to rule. 

Neither wished to break the spell of silence. To 
speak of commonplace matters to the stately figure 
which drew to itself all the spiritual atmosphere and 
sanctity of the past would have seemed to Arrow an act 
of blasphemy. The hours flew and time was as nothing 


170 


MARY 


to the work in hand. He lost all sense of human en- 
deavor or physical fatigue. His mental capacity ap- 
peared sharpened by contact with his model’s attitude. 
No plea to rest, no word of complaint reminded him she 
was of earth. 

So Arrow labored on and on, while Mary stood look- 
ing into his soul, weaving her magic, giving forth in- 
spiration, feeding his fancy with pictures shown by 
those dazzling, unearthly eyes, telling him without 
speech the secrets of sorrow, the messages of mother- 
hood and revealing all the pathos of repudiated majesty. 

Once or twice the artist’s wife passed his studio door, 
but dared not enter, and noting the silence, instinctively 
felt glad. 

“Mary does not trouble to talk,” she said. “Perhaps 
it is just as well.” 

Josephine lingered outside, half ashamed to listen, yet 
compelled by burning curiosity. Then, after a long 
interval, she moved away reassured, murmuring hap- 

pity : 

“Yes, it is just as well!” 


CHAPTER XII 


MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 

T HE day’s work was over and Mary sat alone in her 
cottage, watching the sleeping child. Mrs. Benn 
had left with a singularly happy expression on her face, 
after pressing farewell kisses upon Sam’s ruddy cheek, 
colored by long hours in the sun. That silent effort in 
the studio seemed to Mary dream-like and far away 
now, as the faint thread of the rising moon silvered a 
bank of clouds behind the tall trees of Rutherwyke. 
She realized the artist’s brush had worked with some- 
thing more than ordinary inspiration and power. He 
touched the borderland of supernatural guides. Unseen 
hands stretched their invisible fingers to influence each 
stroke of genius, directing its course, making progress 
swift and sure, lifting him to heights hitherto unknown. 
She thought, with lingering pleasure, of the man’s joy 
in his splendid toil. How strangely his face glowed and 
his eyes kindled as he stood by the canvas like a magi- 
cian, eager to enchant the world, to catch in some won- 
drous spell all the earth-bound senses of human souls, 
crushed beneath their weight of clay, imprisoned by 
material desires and the lust of common things. 

“I am giving to them,” his face seemed to say. “I 
must make them feel, appreciate and know. I can build 
my story in color and form, I can breathe life into it, 
even as the Creator quickens the pulses of unborn chil- 
171 


m 


MARY 


dren. I am able to bring forth and make live; I am 
blessed — and must bless in return.” 

Only once during that long vigil did Mary speak, and 
then her voice interrupted a deep sigh of content, which 
came from the artist with a blissful sense of self-satis- 
faction. 

Perhaps Mary saw the sudden drawing back of those 
shadow-hands guiding his brush, for she bent forward 
with an air of anxiety, fear lurking in her eyes as she 
whispered fervently: 

“Do not triumph too soon, beware of a fall! This is 
only the beginning. It is early to be glad. Wait till 
the evening of endeavor. As yet you have done so 
little.” 

For a moment her words chilled him like a touch of 
distant winter when summer is in the heart. Then he 
laughed softly, murmuring: “But never so well!” and 
fell to working with increased energy. Of course he 
knew he was relying, to an extraordinary extent, upon 
the caprice of the model. If she willed, she could in- 
stantly ruin the picture by a jarring word or cruel jest, 
which would shatter the subtle atmosphere of a presence 
sacred and unreal. But Arrow’s fears were needless. 
Not for one moment did Mary throw off the character 
she took upon her shoulders with such natural dignity 
and pure intention. Even when they parted he fancied 
she still maintained the role and that sacred motherhood 
beamed through her eyes with the light of spiritual fire. 
The sorrows and joys of the Blessed Virgin were mir- 
rored in the Madonna-like features of Rutherwyke’s 
Mary as surely as the sunlight lingered in the calm skies 
above. 

He spoke in warm tones to J osephine that evening of 
Mary’s genius as a model. 


MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 173 


“I have engaged the best professional sitters of the 
day,” he declared, “and not one of them has shown half 
Miss Aquila’s endurance, patience or power of expres- 
sion. The way she keeps her face is superb. It gives a 
man his full chance ; it provides magnificent material to 
work from and is, of course, a talent of no mean order. 
The physical strain must naturally be felt, but she will 
not own to this, so I see I shall be finely spoiled for all 
who come after.” 

While Arrow held forth on the subject of Mary’s 
success in the studio a man crept stealthily up the drive, 
seeking the shelter of the trees, glad when the shadows 
from overspreading boughs mingled with his own. 

The dining-room windows stood open, and he could 
see the lights within and trace the figures of the artist 
and his wife as they sat at the flower-decked table. Up 
and down the shady walks the dim gaze of the silent- 
footed man traveled, with a certain lingering affection 
and a certain look of veiled horror. Then suddenly he 
put up his hands to his brow, for the sight of the 
familiar place set his temples throbbing and his eyes 
burning. He was nervous of being seen; he felt like a 
burglar trespassing on ground where his presence was 
both unwelcome and forbidden. He told himself he had 
done well to come at night, in the silence and the gloom. 
The scandal of his sudden dismissal from Rutherwyke 
spread on swift wings of rumor through Abbotts 
Brooke, and now Monk could no longer bear to face his 
friends, feeling they might believe him guilty and shun 
his presence. 

With an inward struggle to maintain the difficult 
attitude of silence, Mrs. Monk refrained from repeat- 
ing to her husband the treatment she had received from 
Hettie Vines. The good woman knew too well how 


174 


MARY 


deeply such a story would affect the already over- 
sensitive man, though to speak of it might have brought 
personal comfort to her heavily burdened breast. More 
than once the reviling of Hettie and an indignant de- 
scription of her behavior in the street trembled on Mrs. 
Monk’s lips, all but rippling off her tongue, but she 
conquered the impulse nobly. To keep it back, to 
smother the burning sense of injustice and crush its 
poisonous sting was a hard trial to one accustomed to 
repeat every incident of the day, sure of a sympathetic 
listener. Only the thought of all he had suffered en- 
abled her to overcome the temptation and bear the mem- 
ory of the slight alone. 

The usually heavy tread of Monk’s broad feet upon 
the gravel sounded muffled now. He walked with cau- 
tion, fancying the very stones must have turned against 
him and would, if possible, cry out that he intruded. 
Yet behind this fear came the memory, bitter in its 
sweetness, of loving years of labor given to the soil, 
when Rutherwyke bloomed and prospered beneath his 
care. His work had been his life, the dearest treasure 
of his heart. To him it was precious as the work of 
fame in which Arrow Penreath rejoiced, though a 
smaller world acclaimed the triumphs of the poorer man. 
In that show-garden, known for miles around, Monk’s 
pride had found a glad home and his energies an outlet 
which fed them to the full. During his long period of 
service the Penreaths denied him nothing for the achiev- 
ing of success, spared no expense, trusted him with 
large sums of money, treated him as the faithful stew- 
ard of their interests. Then the dark day dawned that 
shattered confidence when some agent of the evil one 
schemed for the downfall of a hard-working man. 

As Monk neared the cottage where his happy married 


, MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE lT5j 

life had been spent his heart beat faster. He began to 
think the recent events must indeed be all a dream and 
that he was really back in his old capacity, returning to 
supper after a day of honest toil. During his waking 
hours he was always walking the garden in fancy, fol- 
lowing the career of each plant and tree known to him 
so intimately, speculating on their health, gauging just 
how the weather would affect their various constitutions. 
Often he unconsciously wounded his wife by watching 
the sky and discussing the rain or warmth in connection 
with Rutherwyke’s vegetation. 

The sight of Mary’s home painted snowy white and 
gleaming like a pearl in the moonlight brought him 
sharply back to reality. No longer attempting to 
muffle his tread, he walked boldly to the door and 
knocked. Mary opened it immediately, still wearing 
that characteristic plain blue working dress, the rich 
coloring and graceful lines showing up well against the 
spotless walls of the simple room. For a moment the 
change of paint, paper and furniture so surprised 
Monk that he gazed in speechless astonishment at the 
altered interior, seeing the old familiar dwelling in 
fancy just as it looked when Mrs. Monk’s household 
gods made the cottage dear to him. 

Neither spoke during the brief pause. Then, with a 
sudden blinking of dazzled eyes, Monk snatched off his 
cap and bowed apologetically. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he muttered, “but there’s such a 
mighty alteration here, it sort of took my breath away 
for a moment. I was wondering whether I had really 
come to the right door or if there might perhaps be some 
mistake.” 

Mary signed to him to enter as she smilingly replied : 

“I was just expecting you. Vines told me you would 


176 


MARY 


probably come up this evening about the place I men- 
tioned. I wrote at once to my friend. You will be glad 
to hear I have received a telegram, saying he will be very 
pleased to engage you on my recommendation. His 
garden is not so large as Rutherwyke, but I dare say 
you will only be there for a short time. I feel sure, in 
the end, Mr. Penreath will want you to return to your 
old quarters. When that day comes, don’t be too proud 
to take your happiness, and forgive.” 

Monk listened in speechless amazement. He had so 
little expected to hear good news that he was slow to 
grasp the full significance of these hopeful words. Of 
late his mind became so tuned to dull, ceaseless misery 
and a sense of numbing failure it was difficult to realize 
the tide could turn. Smarting under injury, his ex- 
pression grew daily more morose, his features hardened, 
and he feared to meet the glances of friend or stranger. 
He grew to think of himself as a leper, who must cry 
aloud : “Unclean ! unclean !” 

Mary, with quick intuition, saw that he was overcome, 
and drawing a chair forward, bade him sit down and 
rest. He gratefully accepted the offer, for his limbs 
trembled and he shivered from head to foot. The tired, 
sunken eyes told of long, sleepless nights, while lines 
of age seared the rugged face, which until recently bore 
a youthful appearance. 

“Why are you so kind to me?” he gasped breath- 
lessly. “Surely you must think with the rest that I was 
dismissed from this place for a good reason, that I 
handled the money too free which the master entrusted 
to my care. It’s only natural that you should. I’m 
pretty well accustomed to suspicion by now. It was 
hard at first, but one gets used to anything. I am 
almost beginning to fancy I am a thief, the name has 


MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 177 


been thrown in my face so often lately. Vines alone 
stood my friend ; he spoke of me to you, he’d help me to 
another place if he could. Still, though I’ve known him 
so long, he believes I am guilty. He won’t own as much 
to my face, but I can guess his thought. He changes 
the subject quickly if I question him. He wouldn’t set 
to work to try and unravel the mystery. That was 
enough for me, that was the worst stab of all. He 
should have known better.” 

The voice addressing Miss Aquila was broken, storm- 
tossed, hopeless. A mind less quick to understand might 
have seen in Monk a soured and desperate man, so hard- 
ened that all the best traits in his nature were paralyzed 
by the cruel blows of fate. But Mary looked below the 
surface, reading in his eyes the story of undeserved 
shame. An expression of deep pity shone in her sym- 
pathetic face, while words of consolation came straight 
from her heart. 

“If I did not think you were innocent,” she said, “if 
I were not convinced that some great mistake has been 
made, I should hardly contemplate your return to Ruth- 
erwyke. I have come to see if I can clear your charac- 
ter — only it will take time, and I must work in my own 
way. Believe me, I shall do my utmost to reinstate you 
before the autumn, to open Mr. Penreath’s eyes.” 

Monk looked up wonderingly, his lips trembling, a 
sudden stiffening of his throat making speech difficult. 
At last he answered brokenly, with a brave attempt at a 
smile : 

“If anything could help me, miss, it is your kind 
thought for a stranger and the knowledge that you 
would try and get me back to a place you so thoroughly 
deserve to keep yourself. But, unfortunately, you are 
all in the dark, you don’t understand Mr. Penreath ; no 


178 


MARY 


more did I, till he turned against me. The Lord knows 
I would have laid down my life for that man; you see, 
he can win devotion. I should have sworn he was just, 
and would never do a mean deed or turn away an old 
servant almost without a hearing. I felt convinced he 
would believe me, even though things looked black. I 
had been in his service so long, and he always studied me 
— like a real gentleman. But now, miss, even if you 
leave Rutherwyke, Vines will be made head man. He 
has worked up for the post, and it isn’t likely I would 
ever get taken on again here. I should not grudge 
Vines his luck either, for he was always loyal to me, and 
his wife presses him hard for money. He has a lot to 
put up with, poor fellow.” 

Mary winced at the words, and her breath came a 
little faster as Monk fixed his eyes upon her with the 
piteous look of a wounded dog. They were the eyes of 
a soul tottering on the brink of despair. They had 
looked into the dark places where death and destruction 
reign. 

“Vines may have other things to do,” she answered 
gently, “but we cannot see into the future, and the 
present alone matters just now. When you go to your 
new situation you will find the old sorrow much easier 
to bear. Nothing helps so much as occupation, and 
because time has hung heavily on your hands, the in- 
justice you suffered appeared to grow every day and 
every hour till it crushed your spirit and blotted out 
hope. It has been constantly in your thoughts since 
you left Rutherwyke. You nursed the memory of this 
wrong by day and took it to bed with you at night. It 
colored your dreams and rose with you to darken and 
embitter the dawn. It crept stealthily from heart to 
brain and repeated its story a thousand times with in- 


MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 179 


creasing vigor — with venom which deadened and poi- 
soned your faculties, piercing the very core and fiber 
of your being. It absorbed, controlled, mastered your 
life with its intolerable shadow. You were its slave, 
bound fast in the toils of a prison house, though you 
knew God could read your soul and that in His sight 
you were innocent.” 

Monk nodded, for the truth of the words drove 
home. He wondered how she knew. Vines had told him 
she was beautiful and clever, but he little dreamed her 
cleverness would take the form of describing the exact 
working of his mind and the unceasing motion of a brain 
embittered by tortuous thought. 

“You’re right, miss,” he said, tapping his head. “It 
settled just here, the smart went on till it crept all over 
me. I felt I could do most like anything in desperation, 
and the sin would lie at Mr. Penreath’s door. It seems 
as if a judgment must fall on him, though I never 
wished him ill. I don’t mind telling you, I should have 
put an end to my misery soon, if this chance had not 
come along. I had thought of the way — the best way 
and the surest. But you have made me feel like a cow- 
ard ; you have pointed out a better path ; you have saved 
me from myself. You shall not regret your generous 
action, lady, or those kind words about the future. The 
wife dearly loves this house, and it will cheer her won- 
derfully just to feel there is a possibility of perhaps 
returning some day. She ain’t proud and wouldn’t let 
me refuse the chance if it came along.” 

Mary opened a drawer and drew out a letter ad- 
dressed to Monk’s future employer. Then she spoke in 
that gentle, reassuring voice which gave such strength 
and comfort: 

“Yes, keep your wife’s spirits up. Remember she 


180 


MARY 


suffers too, and she must be your first consideration. 
To see you happy will be her best medicine. Go to- 
morrow, if possible, and see your new home. It is not 
far by train and your expenses will be paid. Should the 
interview prove satisfactory, I expect you will begin 
work in a few days. Take this letter with you and say 
I asked you to deliver it by hand. Perhaps you would 
like to read what I have said about you.” 

She pulled the contents from the envelope, spreading 
the sheet on the table before Monk’s astonished gaze. 
With fast beating heart he scanned the warm apprecia- 
tion of his talents, each word revealing that Mary knew 
exactly the work he had done at Rutherwyke, quite 
apart from the more mechanical labor of Vines or the 
unskilled toil of the other men. She must either have 
questioned the under-gardeners closely or realized by 
instinct where Monk’s special strength lay. After the 
many recent rebuffs, this praise, well deserved and quite 
unprejudiced, went to his head like wine. He rose with 
eyes flaming and a bright color rushing to his temples, 
spreading its crimson glow over his whole face, alive 
once more with grateful happiness and untold grief. 

“May I,” he cried excitedly, “may I show this to the 
missus? She’s that down, it will put fresh heart into 
her. She has felt a bit sore about your being here, you 
know what women are, and now she will bless you, miss 
— bless you to her dying day just as I will, and never 
forget what you have done for us. I am only afraid it’s 
too good to be true. I hardly dare believe you have set 
us on our feet again. I am afraid of waking up to find 
it is all a cruel fancy.” 

Mary held out her hand. Monk grasped it for a 
hearty shake. 

“There is no dreaming about this,” she said pleas- 


MONK CALLS AT THE WHITE COTTAGE 181 


antly. “It is all very business-like and real. You bad 
better take the telegram also, and certainly show the 
letter to Mrs. Monk; she will like to see it after the 
many disappointments. If you want to cheer her, try 
for a change only to talk of success. Be brave and put 
all trouble behind you. Turn it out as an intruder, cold 
shoulder it like your worst enemy. Be sure that right 
will triumph in the end, if only you will wait patiently 
and trust in the unseen powers.” 

Monk moved to the door, eager to return with his 
good news and Mary watched him with smiling eyes as 
he passed out into the garden. The night air breathed 
“the wordless music of the stars.” She fancied it 
played a song of conquest for Monk and that every 
flower recognized his step. His presence imparted in- 
voluntarily a sense of truth and goodness, of hard work 
done well. Above a group of feathery clouds like angel 
forms veiled the face of the moon, but the gleaming 
light could be traced behind, and Mary knew the pale, 
peerless lamp would soon sail forth unconquered in 
deathless splendor. The temporary eclipse of the moon 
was surely like Monk’s sorrow, and as Mary pointed to 
the silver lining the old proverb rose in his mind. It 
was a silent exchange of thought. 

“Good-night,” he said. “I’m a plain-spoken man and 
can’t express what I feel, but perhaps you can guess, 
miss, all the good you’ve done me. It was an effort to 
come to the old cottage, and I never expected any benefit 
from the coming, but I thought I should hurt Vines’ 
feelings if I refused, seeing he meant well. Now I know 
that you are here, ready to believe in me, to try and 
clear my character, to get me back if possible ; why, it’s 
like a new existence. I had lost hope until this evening. 


182 


MARY 


and when that goes, you can pretty well tell what the 
world is like and how useless life appears.” 

He moved away quickly, not daring to hear the kind 
words she might speak in reply. His eyes were growing 
moist and he wanted the darkness to hide this sign of 
weakness in his hour of newly found peace. But Mary, 
though she only murmured, “good-night,” sent with him 
the influence of her quiet power, her strong, cheering 
thoughts, the charm of confidence placed in one who had 
expected to be looked on with suspicion and mistrust. 

She listened till the tramp of his feet upon the gravel 
could no longer be heard. Then she thought of Vines 
and the phantom steps which dogged him through the 
day. 

“If the truth were known,” she said, “Vines is far the 
saddest of the two.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


WHAT MARY DID 

J OSEPHINE had a great desire to see Constance 
Eastlake, the woman who sent Mary to Ruther- 
wyke, this Mary Aquila who was quickly developing 
from a mere employee into a personal friend. The daily 
sittings to Arrow and the interest Josephine naturally 
took in her husband’s new picture combined to draw 
them into a closer intimacy with the lady gardener than 
would otherwise have been possible. It was plain to 
Mrs. Penreath that the new model really helped Arrow 
in his work, taking extraordinary pains to gratify his 
most exacting wishes. They owed her a debt of grati- 
tude, yet she never appeared conscious of the help she 
gave. 

During her spare time Mary took up her neglected 
duties in the garden with enthusiastic zeal. Often she 
was out at daybreak, and always the skill and judgment 
of quiet management and unostentatious authority 
made itself felt. The flower-decked grounds were as 
much under her care and personal supervision as though 
the prior claim of the studio had never been forced upon 
her by an artist eager to immortalize her beauty. 

A full account of the Eastlake School of Gardening, 
illustrated by photographs in a leading weekly journal, 
made Josephine curious to inspect for herself the suc- 
cessful enterprise, which, until Mary’s advent, bade fair 
183 


184 


MARY 


to end in lamentable failure. Trains fitted conveniently, 
and so Josephine suggested “running over for lunch.” 

Constance wrote a characteristic reply : 

“Dear Jo: It will be simply heavenly to see you 
again, and I am longing to hear all the gossip you can 
tell me about my protegee. Sometimes I feel hideously 
jealous when I think of her with you. I note you state 
carefully in your letter that you prefer to walk from 
the station, which means you are in fear and trembling 
lest you should be met by Max in a racing car. So 
many of our visitors object to riding in bucket seats, 
that we have started a highly respectable motor landau- 
let for station use. It will be there to conduct you 
soberly to our door, and has never been seen to go out 
of a crawl, so need not cause you the mildest pang. 
Max has won several races abroad since last we met. 
He intends shortly to try and break the world’s speed 
record, and possibly his own neck into the bargain ! We 
had a smash yesterday, but mercifully it was kept out 
of the papers. I do hate telegrams of inquiry. 

“Yours in bits, Con.” 

Josephine tried to picture the writer of the letter in 
daily contact with the strangely spiritual Mary. How 
oddly the two characters must have reacted on each 
other! Evidently Constance had taken the lady gar- 
dener to her heart, lavishing upon her an almost sisterly 
devotion. Yet Mary never boasted of the friendly 
treatment she received at the Eastlakes’, but rather 
sought to conceal the affectionate attitude of the duke’s 
daughter toward a humble working woman. 

Mrs. Penreath felt, as she journeyed from Abbotts 
Brooke to the home of her old friend, that Constance at 


WHAT MARY DID 


185 


least would be able to explain certain words and ways 
which were so puzzling in Mary. Surely she would give 
some key to the mystery of this fascinating woman. 
Yet she had said in the past it was above and beyond her 
comprehension and that Josephine herself must solve 
the problem. 

The landaulet awaiting Mrs. Penreath at the quiet 
country station appeared anything but slow. Still, it 
whirled her to the house with less noise and ferocity 
than its garage companion. 

“I could not possibly come and meet you looking such 
a guy,” cried Lady Constance, bounding through the 
open door, with a handkerchief tied across her face, 
holding in place a pad of cottonwool fixed over the left 
eyelid. She wore one arm in a sling and walked with a 
slight limp. “Oh! yes,” seeing Josephine’s look of 
horror, “we did have rather a nasty spill, but it couldn’t 
be avoided. Max and I, being heavily insured, bear 
charmed lives, though we get no recompense for 
bruises.” 

She laughed in the bright, infectious strain that could 
make even a marred face attractive under bandages. 
The crimson curls were blowing about right merrily, as 
if enjoying the joke of Lady Constance’s grotesque ap- 
pearance. 

Josephine could not join in the mirth, the sight of her 
friend’s injuries filled her with commiseration. 

“My dear, it’s awful to think of the risks you run,” 
she said. “I wish you would give up that horrid 
scorching.” 

Lady Constance put the first finger of her free hand 
to a pair of pouting lips. 

“Hush — hush ! — heresy here !’* 

She glanced back over her shoulder and away across 


186 


MARY 


the wide hall Max could be seen advancing toward the 
guest. He had an ugly cut across his cheek and a front 
tooth conspicuously missing. He swung his long arms 
freely as he walked, as though proud of their uninjured 
condition, but his steps betrayed a painful stiffness, 
more marked than the limp noticeable in his wife. 

“Pm dreadfully sorry to see you are both in the 
wars,” began Josephine, but her remark was cut short 
by a wave of the man’s enormous hand and a quick 
retort : 

“The car needs your sympathy far more than we do. 
Our wounds are but surface affairs. Constance and 
I are not fussy about ourselves, whereas our poor motor 
is suffering severe internal injuries, which will cause us 
a good deal of trouble and expense. It is really most 
worrying to lay up a car for the sake of a wretched 
cyclist who was doing his best to get killed. But how 
is it you are alone? I hoped Arrow would come too. 
Busy, I suppose, as usual. I am wondering if he has 
begun a new work since” — here he paused, then added 
softly — “since Mary went to Rutherwyke.” 

Josephine glanced with an eye of appreciation at the 
house, which had been recently redecorated. 

There was a touch of orientalism in the color scheme, 
while not one jarring note spoiled the harmony of the 
dimly lighted hall. It appeared more suited to a 
dreamer than that huge, happy, long-limbed man, with 
his boyish-looking wife, who stood on tiptoe to light her 
cigarette from one between his lips. 

“Arrow would like to have come, but it was impos- 
sible,” replied Mrs. Penreath. “He is heart and soul in 
a new picture, madly infatuated with the subject — a 
very strange and a very sacred one. He remains faith- 
ful to his easel through all these glorious summer days. 


WHAT MARY DID 


187 


When the mood is on him he must work, without paus- 
ing, until he is bound to stop from sheer exhaustion and 
hunger. He says, while Nature is lavish to the world, 
he is most inspired, and so the lovely weather fails to 
tempt him from his studio.” 

Max listened with a genuine show of interest. His 
face was a study as he turned to Josephine. 

“Do you remember my prophecy?” he asked. 

She wrinkled her brow. 

“I don’t think I do,” she acknowledged. “I have a 
bad memory. What was it, Max?” 

Constance broke in with a sudden flash of excited 
recollection. 

“I know. He said we should be sure to see Mary in 
next year’s Academy. He was convinced she would be 
made to pose as the Madonna.” 

The man nodded assent, a triumphant look in his 
dancing blue eyes. 

“Arrow isn’t blind,” he murmured slyly. “With a 
face like that on the premises, no artist could resist 
turning the lady gardener into a model. I longed to be 
able to paint when she was here, instead I had to content 
myself with some secret snapshots, but unfortunately the 
photographs never developed. Perhaps Mary ill-wished 
the camera, only one knows she would be too kind 
hearted to do so.” 

Mrs. Penreath threw off her dust cloak in the hall. 
Already lunch was announced. Very slender and pretty 
she looked in her light summer gown, a delicate flush 
tinting the face — fair and fragile as a lily. Her ap- 
pearance of youth was the result of ceaseless care and 
many hours of rest. She appeared hardly older than 
Lady Constance, who was fifteen years her junior. Now 
the questioning eyes looked at Max with quiet scrutiny. 


188 


MARY 


“I am afraid Arrow would not like me to mention 
the subject of his new picture,” declared Josephine, 
“but I don’t suppose I am violating confidence by con- 
fessing that Mary is sitting to him. She definitely re- 
fused at first and I hardly expected her to give way, but 
somehow Arrow, who is very plausible, gained his point 
in the end. I have never known his powers of persuasion 
to fail.” 

Max burst into a hearty laugh, which he did not try 
to restrain. 

“Bravo !” he cried. “I respect Arrow for his perse- 
verance, and am really glad to know that wonderful 
face will be seen of men. If Mary is the most retiring 
human being, she cannot prevent the gaping crowd 
feasting their eyes on your husband’s work. It is a 
great achievement on Arrow’s part. Give him my 
heartiest congratulations.” 

Constance, who was feeding herself with a fork and 
looking rather dubiously at the chopped-up pieces of 
food, smiled approval. 

“I am glad you told us, Josephine,” she said in a 
lowered voice. “After lunch I want to have a talk with 
you about Mary.” 

Max listened with a quizzical expression. It always 
amused him to notice how serious Constance became 
when she spoke of Mary Aquila. 

“You know” — turning to Josephine — “that is a sub- 
ject my wife refuses to discuss before me; she thinks I 
treat it with too much levity. I assure you, when Mary 
was here, Con positively worshiped the ground she 
trod on. I do believe it was pain and grief to the poor 
woman, since by some strange chance she possessed an 
amazingly humble nature. I always tell Con that 
Mary left because she had no wish to be adored.” 


WHAT MARY DID 


189 


Lady Constance listened with a petulant shrug of her 
shoulders, which so inconvenienced the injured arm a 
little cry of pain ensued. 

“Oh! bother,” she said. “I cannot move without 
hurting myself. But I must say, if I were fond of 
Mary, all the girls in the gardening school followed my 
example. Even now they talk of her constantly, hardly 
a day passes but I hear her name. They preserve 
mementoes of her, almost as if they were sacred relics. 
One of our youngest pupils has a small tree in a pot 
which she declares will never die. Mary gave it to her 
last Christmas, and Christmas was a most mysterious 
time.” 

Constance paused, for just at that moment she suc- 
ceeded in pinning down a slippery mushroom which had 
ruthlessly evaded her fork. Now she raised the dainty 
morsel to her lips, won by painstaking effort, enjoying 
the sweets of victory. 

“Why mysterious?” asked Josephine. 

Her voice sounded natural enough, but despite the 
warm day a chill ran down her spine, like cold water to 
the heat-glow of her flesh. 

“Mary vanished and no one knew where,” replied 
Lady Constance as she swallowed the mushroom and 
started again on her arduous task of single-handed 
manipulation. “Early in the morning a message came 
that Miss Aquila was not to be found. We were giving 
a big dinner to the students, quite a festive affair. 
Afterward they played games and sang Christmas car- 
ols. Later on a note arrived from Mary, simply stating 
she was sorry she could not be with them. The rest was 
kept a profound secret. Nobody saw her either go or 
return, and she never gave the slightest hint of her 
movements. Oddly enough, though all the girls were 


190 


MARY 


talking about her absence unceasingly throughout the 
day, not one dared question her the following morning. 
They said ‘something in her face stopped them.’ ” 

Josephine bent forward, eagerly drinking in the 
words. 

“But didn’t you ask?” she queried. “I am sure I 
should have found out directly.” 

Constance shook her head. 

“I can’t bear to seem curious, and it was no business 
of mine. I felt that Mary would have told me herself, 
had she wished me to know.” 

Max glanced across at his wife, his eyebrows slightly 
raised and his features touched by glints of humor. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “something in her face stopped 
you too.” 

There was a pause. Josephine’s eyes were cast down. 
She sipped her wine a little nervously. Then she mur- 
mured with a shrug of impatient shoulders : 

“Where do you think she went, Con ?” 

The words came petulantly, for since her arrival a 
fresh feeling of dread tinged her thoughts. She wished 
Constance would dispel, instead of fostering, all the un- 
canny and baffling illusions which hovered round Mary’s 
personality. 

“I could not say. I would not dare to guess. Ask 
Max. He has many explanations.” 

Josephine obeyed. She turned to her host and fixed 
her eyes upon him pleadingly. 

“Please don’t joke about it,” she said, “but do tell me. 
Wasn’t it rather peculiar of her to go away at such a 
time without a word of warning? You see, she has no 
relations apparently. She says she is quite alone in the 
world and that all her people died long ago. She gives 
no information about herself, and yet we take her to our 


WHAT MARY DID 


191 


hearts; we can’t shut her out, even though we disap- 
prove of our own weakness. She forces good fellowship, 
she compels trust, she disarms suspicion. You are a 
man of the world. What do you think of Mary Aquila?” 

Max no longer smiled, he was quite serious now. 
Mrs. Penreath asked his opinion in a voice that revealed 
a note of anxiety, and he was courteous enough to re- 
spect her attitude. 

“If you really want my opinion about her so-called 
mysterious disappearance last Christmas, I see nothing 
so very strange in Mary’s sudden absence. Probably 
she has been in your service long enough for you to dis- 
cover she is exceedingly kind to the poor. Doubtless 
somebody was in trouble, and she went to bind up a 
broken spirit or nurse a sick child. Her subsequent 
silence would rise from humility, hiding her light under 
a bushel, you know. The event was magnified by imagi- 
native people who honestly believed that some deep 
motive lay behind a very ordinary occurrence.” 

Josephine breathed more freely. Max Eastlake’s 
words of sound common sense created a feeling of secu- 
rity that was peculiarly refreshing to the highly strung 
woman. The very muscle and build of his imposing 
figure made her feel comfortably near to earth and 
agreeably separated from ghostly fears. 

“I expect you are right,” she murmured, “and I must 
say if the grounds here owe much to Mary, she is indeed 
a splendid gardener. I suppose you have turned out 
quite a number of skilled pupils from the school. How 
delightful to feel you are doing some good in the world 
with your money, helping struggling girls to obtain a 
livelihood in these over-crowded days of unemployment.” 

Her eyes flashed a look of appreciation through the 
open French window, which afforded a fine view of the 


192 


MARY 


Eastlake grounds, a perfect paradise of care and culti- 
vation. 

“Mary brought us our first success,” said Constance, 
“the luck changed when she came. I must show you the 
Tudor garden, which is full of most glorious roses 
grown on pillars. Mary was responsible, too, for ‘the 
scented garden,’ a place of such delicious fragrance 
that you never want to leave it. She planted all my 
special favorites there — heliotrope, verbena, mignonette, 
honeysuckle, white and purple clematis and arches of 
crimson ramblers. Underfoot there is the really old 
red-brick pavement, which is positively fascinating. 
We will have our coffee on the lawn by the sundial and 
then take a long walk round.” 

Josephine was not sorry when Constance made the 
move to comfortable seats in the garden of varied hues, 
only her heart sank somewhat when her hostess informed 
her she would send for the baby. 

“I want you to see Babs,” she said. “I know you 
are fond of children.” 

Josephine tried to smile, but the memory of a small 
atom of humanity, with vacant eyes and gaping lips, 
made the smile one of pain rather than pleasure. In 
early days it had been well known the Eastlakes refused 
to see that their child was mentally deficient. 

“Of course,” Constance continued, lighting another 
cigarette as she held her well-filled case between her 
knees, “I don’t pretend to understand babies. I know 
much more about motors, but I really should value your 
opinion of Babs.” 

Josephine felt nonplussed. What could she say? To 
praise became so difficult when forced and unreal, to 
speak the truth too cruel where ignorance was bliss. 


WHAT MARY DID 193 

“It is so iong since my boy was a baby,” she stam- 
mered. “I fear I am a very poor judge.” 

Constance paid little heed to the words, which she took 
as an expression of modesty from one who possibly pre- 
ferred to disown domestic virtues. 

Even as Josephine spoke a white-clad nurse, leading a 
little toddler by the hand, advanced across the lawn. 

“See how firmly the child walks,” said Constance, an 
unexpected note of excitement in her voice. “At one 
time she could not take two straight steps and at an age 
when others run about and play.” 

She held out her hand to the mite in a big sun-bonnet. 
For a moment Josephine dared not look beneath the 
frilled shade, then, determined to voice a host of society 
lies, she turned with the conventional “What a dear 
little ” 

But before the sentence finished, Babs’ bonnet 
slipped back and she raised her face to Mrs. Penreath. 

The words died suddenly on Josephine’s tongue from 
sheer astonishment. A pair of bright eyes, with a 
twinkle in them like Max in his moments of mirth, 
peeped up with rare intelligence. The baby mouth 
smiled a welcome and a small hand patted her knee, 
with the love children feel instinctively for light, at- 
tractive clothes. 

“Is — is this Babs?” she gasped, hardly recognizing 
the features in their new changed mood. 

Constance was watching her friend closely. 

“Why, yes,” she replied. “I believe you would not 
have known her. Do you — do you think she has im- 
proved ?” 

Josephine gathered the little one on her knee, unable 
to conceal her joyful relief. 


194s 


MARY 


“I never saw a child so altered,” she declared can- 
didly. “Why is she so much brighter and stronger?” 

Constance remained silent for a moment. She looked 
toward the dining-room windows to make sure Max was 
not approaching. Then she added with an effort at 
appearing natural : 

“Let me see, when did she change nurse? You and 
I both remarked on the improvement at the same time. 
Ah! I remember, it was soon after Miss Aquila came 
to the garden school. I brought her up one day to the 
nursery, and she seemed unhappy about Babs. She 
said the child wanted rousing, and asked if she might 
come and play with her sometimes. Once or twice she 
took her out alone, you were not very well just then. 
From that hour Babs began to notice things, and to 
talk a little, and to get fonder of me. We used to say 
it was Miss Aquila’s influence, didn’t we, nurse?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Josephine listened with parted lips and eyes of won- 
der as she viewed the happy expression of a child no 
longer caught in the spell of some strange brain trouble. 

Constance rose and kissed the rosy face. 

“Run away, Babs,” she said, making a sign to the 
nurse. “You shall come back later, when I am alone.” 

Josephine did not ask for her to stay, she only wanted 
to be left with Constance. 

As the strong child-limbs trotted off across the grass 
Mrs. Penreath clasped her hands and met the mother’s 
searching look fixed upon her questioningly. At last 
Lady Constance spoke in an awed whisper: 

“Jo, watch her as she runs — you see, you see. Ah! 
I know you thought I was blind before, but I closed my 
eyes wilfully; I would not accept the truth. I said, ‘It 
cannot, cannot be. My child different to others — im- 


WHAT MARY DID 


195 


possible !’ I rebelled against the thought. I put it from 
me fiercely. I never mentioned it even to my husband. 
Men are less observant. But though I tried to seem 
indifferent, though I laughed in the face of the world, 
the sharp pang was knocking at my heart all the time. 
I avoided the nursery, because Babs either did not 
notice me at all or turned away and cried. The vacant 
look in her eyes would fill me with such terror and de- 
spair that sometimes I almost feared for my own reason. 
I dare say, speaking of it to no one made the sorrow 
worse. I hoped Max did not see. I kept him as much 
as possible from the child; I did not want him to suffer 
as I suffered.” 

Lady Constance paused, as if the painful memory of 
the past rose before her and stifled speech. She put her 
hand to her throat, drawing a deep breath. 

“And then?” queried Josephine, leaning forward. 
Her look of interest encouraged the mother to continue. 

“And then Mary came. I was puzzled at first, a little 
suspicious perhaps of her beauty and very quiet manner. 
I thought she could not possibly be as good as she ap- 
peared. I even hinted to Max that the new arrival 
might prove unsatisfactory, since quiet people are some- 
times deceptive. He said men were quicker at telling 
these things than women, and assured me, as a judge of 
character, that Mary was quite as saintly as she ap- 
peared. He spoke so strongly on this point I wondered 
if he tried to draw her out by a little flattery, only to 
find how utterly unworldly and simple she was.” 

Josephine gave an almost inaudible sigh of quiet 
satisfaction. Perhaps she pictured Mary at that mo- 
ment in the studio with Arrow, his daily companion of 
long working hours, in a solitude of two. She fancied, 
since the sittings commenced, she could trace a subtle 


196 


MARY 


change in the artist’s character. He spoke more kindly 
of his numerous enemies, who, grudging him fame, did 
all in their power to present him to the public in a wrong 
light. Once or twice lately she had mentioned Monk, 
and Arrow’s words betrayed more sympathy than cen- 
sure. His nerves, too, appeared quieted; he was less 
erratic and more considerate to Josephine. 

“I suppose, after your husband’s verdict, you began 
to feel greater confidence in Mary,” Mrs. Penreath mur- 
mured casually. 

Constance drew the low garden chair nearer. 

“I should not have relied upon Max,” she retorted, 
smiling, “because if Mary had really been deceiving us, 
he was the last person, after all, to whom she would 
have revealed her frivolous side. But I just quietly 
watched, and in a very few days I absolutely made up 
my mind that a wonderful character was in our midst. 
I not only observed her work — the ceaseless energy, the 
untiring devotion, the infection of high-souled endeavor 
— I saw how she drew together the missing threads and 
wove them into a strong web of lasting fabric. I no- 
ticed her example spreading like fire in a wind. Girls 
we despaired of became models of virtue under Mary’s 
rule, willing reformation appeared on all sides, and this 
new enthusiasm, this fresh life, evident in every task, 
made for refreshing happiness. Every face smiled. 
When I went round the grounds and houses I found the 
old grumblers had mysteriously vanished and were re- 
placed by pleasant people, eager to excel, and always 
Mary’s name was on their lips, to tell what she said, 
what she advised, what she did. Still I was unconvinced. 
I feared the improvement would not last, since anything 
marvelous, unexpected and a little eerie takes a long 
time to knock its way into my hard head! Perhaps 


WHAT MARY DID 197 

Mary realized this, for suddenly she turned her atten- 
tion to me.” 

As Constance uttered these words, her unbandaged 
e y e grew, if possible, more scintillating and brilliantly 
attractive, with the sparkle of sunlight on water and 
just the suspicion of a tear in its quivering depths. 

Josephine forgot her surroundings, so intent was she 
upon her friend’s words. She did not see Max emerge 
from the dining-room, cast a glance at the two chatter- 
ing women and move away toward the garage. 

“Yes. Go on, go on.” 

The words were spoken impatiently. Constance’s 
habit of pausing irked her listener. 

“Well, when Mary’s attention is turned to you, it 
makes rather a startling experience and is one you will 
probably never encounter in your calm, even life. I 
fancy she only gives the full benefit to those who are 
really troubled. I had succeeded in deceiving the ordi- 
nary passer-by, I could even throw dust in the eyes of 
my husband (and they ought to be used to dust when 
you think of the racing car !), but it took more than my 
mother-wit to hide my misery from Mary Aquila. She 
asked me suddenly, in one of the conservatories, whether 
she might see my little girl? I suppose I hesitated and 
grew red. I never let nurse bring Babs at that time 
to the gardening school. I did not want the students to 
know the child by sight. I tried to put off the question 
by some feeble excuse, and then Mary told me in quite 
simple words that she knew all my trouble. She un- 
folded the hidden sorrows of my heart. She told me my 
thoughts, pangs, fears. By some strange power her 
intuition guided her aright. Possibly she read my mind 
at the moment, probably she had divined its secrets long 
since. It seemed to me afterward that her spirituality 


198 


MARY 


must have given her this strange insight. She lived 
above the flesh in some utterly pure atmosphere of her 
own making, drawing it round her like a veil, to use as 
a protection against all that was evil.” 

Josephine sat very upright now, her eyes fixed upon 
Constance with redoubled intensity. 

“How did Mary know ? Can you tell me that ?” 

She spoke uneasily, with an inborn horror of any- 
thing approaching a thought-reader or clairvoyant. In 
an earlier age she would have been the first to burn the 
priestesses of witchcraft. 

“I dare say rumor reached her,” replied Lady Con- 
stance, seeing Josephine’s consternation, “or perhaps 
she put two and two together. I may, after all, be very 
transparent in my attempted deceptions. But now I 
look back, it strikes me as likely that she found out 
about Babs before she came to the school. She spoke 
as though my sorrow had brought her there. Of course 
I was so taken off my guard, I owned up to everything, 
all my bitterness of heart, my shame, rebellion and the 
pride which kept me dumb. In the past pity was the 
very last thing I felt that I could bear. We were all as 
a family rather too proud, and Mary made me see this. 
She showed me myself in quite a new and unexpected 
light. I can’t tell you what she said or what she did, but 
her influence was so wonderfully soothing that I felt 
almost happy after my first outburst, though I had 
little hope then of ever seeing Babs better. I simply 
unburdened my soul to that woman, and all the time 
some voice within kept saying the word ‘Holy!’ We 
went together to the child’s play-room, and Babs ran 
to Mary, as if she had known her all her life. I was 
surprised and perhaps a little jealous at first, but that 
feeling soon passed off when I saw the good effect she 


WHAT MARY DID 


199 


had on my poor little daughter. The startling change 
did not happen at once — it took time — but nevertheless 
I called it a miracle, a veritable miracle. When I said 
this to Mary she was indignant, but I shall always think 
so. How can I think otherwise? You have only to look 
for yourself ; you have only to see Babs. Every spare 
moment was given to the child. Once when she had a 
feverish cold, Mary came and sat by her cot all night. 
She taught Babs to love me; she made her notice and 
observe. She showed her how to play as other children 
play; she woke some dormant sense; she dispelled a 
heavy cloud. During that critical time when Mary was 
working the spell, devoting all her energies to the case at 
hand, I was ignored. She had no word for me; she was 
bound up in Babs. I watched as one apart. I felt ter- 
ribly excited. I saw the dawning intelligence ; nurse saw 
it too, and Mary’s ways filled her with awe. At last an 
unmistakable success crowned each fresh effort. The 
child lost her hazy look ; she began to laugh and answer 
intelligently, as her face grew rosy and responsive. 
Then I could contain myself no longer. I simply rushed 
to Mary in such a wild fit of gratitude that Max was not 
far from the mark when he said I worshiped her. I 
offered her figuratively the half of my kingdom. I en- 
treated her never to leave us, to be my adopted sister, to 
live in our house and share my income, to consider her- 
self as one of the family for life. I hated the idea of 
her going away from Babs. She read my thoughts, 
assuring me the child would improve from year to year, 
planting in my mind the conviction that all must be well. 
As to my offer, she paid little or no heed to it; she 
scarcely seemed to hear what I said. This woman, 
working for her bread, barely thanked me for my press- 
ing invitation, from the mere fact that it was never 


m 


MARY 


considered for a moment. She just smiled away the 
words and shortly afterward broke to me gently the 
chilling fact that she must leave. I rather fancy she 
never stays long in one place. Perhaps she knows the 
power of her influence and feels compelled to seek fresh 
pastures that it may spread and grow. She spoke of 
going just as I heard of your trouble with Monk. I 
said to Max, if we must lose her, I should like her to go 
to my old friends, that they might benefit. I longed to 
tell you this story of Babs when last we were at Ruther- 
wyke, but *1 thought you must see the child first and 
know Mary before you could understand or believe my 
story.” 

Constance, whose eyes had been fixed upon the far- 
away nursery windows, now turned to Josephine to see 
the effect of her narrative. Even as she did so a little 
cry of horror escaped her, for Josephine’s head fell 
back, her lips became blue, her fingers twitched and she 
was apparently fighting for breath. Feebly she gasped 
the words, “Smelling salts,” and then fell sideways, stiff, 
nerveless and pale as death. 

Constance forgot her wounded arm as she caught the 
unconscious body until a sudden sharp pain reminded 
her that she had dragged it from the sling. 

“Max!” she cried loudly, “Max, come and help me. 
Josephine has fainted.” 

In the distance she could see her husband walking 
toward the house. Suddenly he heard her calling and 
started running, his wide steps covering the intervening 
space with the speed of a long-limbed greyhound. In 
a moment he had reached the two women, and waving 
Constance aside, picked Josephine up as if she had been 
a baby and carried her into the house. 


CHAPTER XIV 


“why not?” 

* THAT can you expect if you will make your 

▼ V visitors sit in the full heat and glare by that 
sundial?” Max was saying to Constance as Josephine 
stirred and looked dizzily round the cool drawing-room. 

“I do believe I fainted,” murmured the weak voice of 
the sufferer as the realization of life returned. 

“I really do believe you did,” replied Constance, 
placing some liquid to her lips. “Drink this, dear. 
There! your color is coming back already and you will 
be all right in a minute. I am so used to sitting in the 
sun that I forget other people cannot stand it in the 
same way. I shall know in the future that sun-baths 
may have disastrous effects.” 

Josephine closed her eyes again, her collar was un- 
fastened and her forehead wet with the water they had 
sprinkled on her face. She felt instinctively for a 
handkerchief in which her powder puff was secreted. 

“Was it the sun, do you think?” she asked, trying to 
collect her thoughts. “I have only fainted once before 
in my life, a long time ago, when I was very frightened. 
I had to sleep in a haunted room and a girl friend played 
a trick on me. I thought I saw a ghost and fell down 
like a stone.” 

Constance drew a chair to the couch and whispered: 

“Don’t talk for a few minutes, just keep quiet till 
you are quite yourself again.” 

201 


202 


MARY 


She made a sign to Max to go away. His services 
were no longer required and he crept from the room on 
tiptoe. 

Josephine watched him vanish through the door, then 
looked up wonderingly at Constance. 

“I can’t imagine how it happened,” she said apolo- 
getically, ignoring the advice just given and speaking 
her thoughts aloud. “I am so sorry to cause all this 
trouble. We were talking of something, Con. What 
was it? I wish I could remember.” 

A tender hand stroked Josephine’s brow, Constance’s 
one free hand, for the other had been eased back by 
Max into the sling, with sundry suppressed groans 
from an injured motorist. 

“Never mind, I will tell you later.” 

Josephine sat up with an effort. 

“I must know,” she said. “I must know now. It was 
about — about ” 

The really troubled look on her face induced Con- 
stance to add : 

“About Mary.” 

Josephine fell back with a little nod of recollection, 
and her breathing became faster than before. 

“Of course, how stupid of me; it all flashes back. 
Didn’t you say you felt I must know Mary before I 
could understand?” 

Constance fanned the prostrate figure as she replied: 

“Yes, I think I said that.” 

The air revived Josephine, and she turned a pair of 
grateful eyes on her hostess. 

“Thank you, dear. Don’t trouble to fan me any 
more. I am much better. Of course, knowing Mary, I 
understood only too well all you told me. I pictured 
every scene to the life, and then suddenly I felt as if the 


“WHY NOT?” 


203 


garden and everything tangible slipped from me. I 
heard your voice miles away, and could no longer see 
you. I wanted to cry out, but I couldn’t speak; I 
thought I was stifling in a dense fog. Oh! it was a hor- 
rible sensation ! I wonder if death is like that.” 

Josephine lay in a refreshing draft between the 
open door and window. Every moment the feeling of 
returning strength made it hard to realize she had so 
recently lost consciousness. 

“Do you know,” she whispered in a sudden burst of 
confidence, “I am a terrible coward and I confess I do 
sometimes feel a little frightened of Mary. All you told 
me was so uncanny that it bore out certain ideas which 
possessed me at Rutherwyke, ideas I have owned to 
no one but Arrow. Don’t ask me what they are, for I 
should not like to appear utterly ridiculous in your 
eyes. But Mary is certainly mysterious and wonderful. 
I cannot accept her as just the ordinary human being; 
that would be impossible. I fancy there is something 
unreal about her, and the very thought makes my flesh 
creep and takes my breath away. No one else appears 
to feel this, and Arrow says I am hypersensitive, nervy 
and hysterical. If he knew I fainted to-day when you 
were telling me about Mary, he would say — well — he 
would say I had worked myself up into a state of terror 
and collapsed for no earthly reason. There he would be 
right. If a reason could be found it would not be of 
earth.” 

Constance looked piteously at her friend. She could 
not understand anybody being frightened of Mary, that 
sweet woman with the kind eyes, tranquil manner and 
low, soothing voice. Certainly there must be something 
very wrong with Josephine. 

“Perhaps, dear, you ought to go away for a change,” 


204 


MARY 


she said soothingly. “I often think you stay too long 
at Rutherwyke. At one time you were always visiting 
or entertaining. Now you seem to live so much to 
yourself, and I don’t think it is good for you. One is 
apt to become too imaginative.” 

Josephine moved from the sofa and began arranging 
her disheveled hair in front of a hanging mirror. 

“Not to myself,” she answered with a shake of her 
head. “Oh ! no, I do not live to myself, Constance. I 
am absolutely wrapped up in Arrow and his career. If 
I am a hermit, he has made me one. People staying in 
the house disturb him. When tired from a long day’s 
painting, he finds it very fatiguing to be obliged to talk 
at meals. I understand him and can read his face as 
some prophets read the weather. It is an open book to 
me. I am sure many think us selfish, but Arrow says it 
is such a comfort to feel he has really a home, a quiet 
place of refuge, and not a hotel kept for the benefit of 
relations and friends in search of amusement. I bow to 
genius and am content to let Rutherwyke remain the 
quiet retreat of a great worker.” 

Lady Constance possessed such a restless nature and 
was so accustomed to coming and going that she found 
this point of view difficult to grasp. For her life was a 
series of house-parties and motoring tours in all four 
continents. Months and years whirled by in the per- 
petual motion of rapid engagements. She could hardly 
picture existence without frequent journeys abroad or 
the weekly “week end” of social intercourse. Her hori- 
zon became limited by bridge parties, tennis tourna- 
ments, dances, dinners and, above all, the exciting motor 
contests in which Max freely indulged. She remembered 
Josephine, in her earlier married years, as the leader of 
a social set in which celebrities abounded, the giver of 


“WHY NOT?” 


205 


lavish entertainments, notable for their originality. At 
her house men of letters, artists, leading politicians and 
famous beauties were drawn together by the magnetism 
and charm of the Penreath hospitality. At that time 
both Arrow and Josephine exerted all their powers of 
attraction, scheming to make each entertainment more 
dazzling than the last. Then the climber was mounting 
the ladder, seeking the golden apple of success with a 
feverish lust for fame. The men and women he enter- 
tained were the men and wcfmn who could help him on in 
his career. The big people of the fashionable world 
must be made familiar with the name of Arrow Pen- 
reath, and every move was arranged with the subtle 
calculation of one who meant to be received and known. 
Few guessed how the popular artist longed to shut out 
this great throng of admirers, to refuse even the invita- 
tions of royalty, and be alone, unhampered, with his art 
as sole companion. But at last release came, and when 
complete triumph was assured, when every tongue sang 
his praises, and the world acknowledged him the greatest 
master of his day, then he laughingly turned his back 
on the crowd. Those who desired to fete him were not 
even favored by an answer to their invitations. The 
warmest congratulations were thrust unread into the 
waste-paper basket. He only wanted to escape from the 
obligations of a large acquaintance. The game had 
been played and won. No need to push and clamor now, 
the public was his friend, that vast, indescribable voice 
of many waters which acclaimed and sang soothing 
songs of victory — peans of adulation untaxed by sepa- 
rate personalities. The slavery was over, the striving 
finished. Henceforth the world waited for him; he did 
not wait for the world. 

Josephine knew all this, though she dared breathe 


206 


MARY 


none of it to Constance, knew and regretted the days of 
endeavor, remembering their seductive sweetness. Now 
there was nothing left for her but to sit in the shadow of 
his greatness. The stimulating fight was over and her 
charm of manner, her good looks, her tact were of no 
further help to Arrow. Only lately a new thought came 
with a thrill of pleasure, fresh fields of energy spread 
tempting nets before her eyes, in which she might once 
more catch her prey for another loved one. 

Constance saw the strange, yearning expression in 
Mrs. Penreath’s eyes, saw them gradually brightening 
with some unspoken excitement, born of the thoughts 
now flitting through her brain. The younger woman 
knew that silence could not last for long and waited 
patiently for Josephine to speak. 

“Of course,” said the voice, which had recovered its 
usual strength, “there is Oliver to be considered. We 
can hardly believe he is grown up yet, but once a young 
man embarks on social life, if his parents remain her- 
mits, they not only lose their hold upon his affections, 
but they lose his presence altogether. Perhaps it would 
be too much to expect Arrow to make any difference in 
his habits, but I personally have every intention of help- 
ing and not hindering my boy. He shall bring his 
friends to Rutherwyke and enjoy life to the full. You 
will laugh when I tell you that though I try to keep 
young by every imaginable device, my dearest wish is 
to be a grandmother.” 

Constance smiled approval and would have clapped 
her hands but for the confining influence of the sling. 

“Splendid!” she cried. “I have quite worried over 
your long eclipse, thinking so often of the past, when 
you were the gayest of the gay, the most popular 
hostess in London. Now the old days may revive, for a 


“WHY NOT?” 


20 ? 

raison d’etre is offered, stands at your very door in the 
person of a handsome and talented son on the threshold 
of life. I remember Arrow telling Max of Oliver’s clev- 
erness more than a year ago. He said the boy was 
really brilliant and should make a wonderful speaker, 
since he suffered from none of youth’s usual shyness. 
Max jokingly declared Arrow saw a future prime min- 
ister in Oliver. But many a jest becomes truth, and 
this may prove a case of the ‘true word spoken.’ ” 

J osephine shrugged her shoulders with a good- 
natured shake of her head. 

Much as she admired her son, she tried not to appear 
infatuated, an effort produced by a natural shrinking 
from ridicule. 

“Of course,” she said, “it is very difficult to judge of 
boys until they suddenly develop into men. Girls reveal 
far earlier their character and inclinations. Oliver was 
always good at games, yet he loved reading and showed 
himself a deep thinker at a very early age. He has cer- 
tainly a rather ingratiating manner, which is a great 
help to a man of the world, and it will not be my fault if, 
in a short time, he does not know his world very well.” 

Constance assented, still with a little twinkle in her 
eye which suggested mischief. 

“Certainly he could not have a better guide, coun- 
selor and friend than the fair Josephine, with her subtle 
discernment and woman’s intuition to guide his early 
steps. Oliver was wise in his selection of a mother !” 

The subject effectually dispelled Mrs. Penreath’s re- 
cent depression. Though she leaned back a little lan- 
guidly on the cushions, her eyes were alight with burn- 
ing interest, and as she forgot their talk of Mary her 
spirits revived, released from that overwhelming shadow 
of fear and mystery. 


208 


MARY 


“I have always believed,” she continued, “that young 
minds should be trained early in good taste and judg- 
ment. If at eighteen (a truly impressionable age) the 
son is thrown by his parents with the right sort of peo- 
ple his choice of friends becomes naturally educated and 
refined. I shall do all in my power to dispel the idea that 
respectability must be linked to ugliness, boredom and 
dowdy dressing. He shall be thrown with the best the 
world can give, and if he has a scrap of gratitude in 
his composition, he will bless the mother who spreads 
before him a dazzling feast which he may legitimately 
devour. I could never understand the allurements of 
forbidden fruit, and in this Arrow agrees with me. 
Concealment, hypocrisy, lying must prove irksome as 
well as demoralizing, and they take up too much time 
in these days of hurried living. Vice is very boring, if 
viewed in a spirit of emancipation and enlightenment.” 

Constance still listened with an air of approval. To 
each philosophical sentence uttered by Josephine she 
murmured a half-inaudible assent. 

“I can see you will make an extremely desirable 
mamma ; I may say a really model parent of the up-to- 
date school. I should like to offer you my help, only you 
hardly need it, I fancy. Still I must say one or two par- 
ticularly sparkling gems in the matrimonial market 
flashed before my mental vision as you described your 
future plans. I allude to debutantes who might require a 
year or two of unfettered freedom before settling down, 
but this would probably suit the youthful Oliver. I 
have frequently noticed how men go back to an early 
love after quite a prolonged bachelorhood, while the girl, 
having possibly experienced some unsatisfactory af- 
fairs, hails her original admirer as an old and trusted 


“WHY NOT?” 209 

friend. They compare notes and fall into each other’s 
arms. A happy youth is a great safeguard to age.” 

Josephine felt the truth of the words; it was not un- 
like a brief resume of her own girlhood. 

“Of course,” she said, “I should love you to help me, 
Constance, in my efforts to wake up Rutherwyke. No 
one could understand the position better than yourself. 
Picture a woman trying to revive the enthusiasms of 
youth for the sake of the boy she loves. See her in- 
fluencing his destiny without ever betraying her object. 
Glory with her if she succeeds or should she fail pity 
her from the bottom of your heart, for what could be 
more bitter than to connect an only son and his mother 
with that lamentable word — failure?” 

Constance put one hand to her forehead, as if to force 
the ideas floating about in her brain. 

“Wait a minute,” she murmured, “I am just trying to 
think of the special plums in the big fat social pudding 
prepared to tempt Oliver with its sweetened mass. Has 
he, as yet, any particular preference or is he in the 
puppy stage of gobbling up everything?” 

Josephine reflected a moment, as her eyes sought in- 
voluntarily for a clock, with the vague remembrance 
that sooner or later she must catch a train to Abbotts 
Brooke. 

“I fancy he admires dark women at present.” 

Constance gave a little chuckle. 

“Then he will probably marry an albino. No harm, 
however, in trying him with a young, rich-complexioned 
Castilian of my acquaintance, who comes into a big for- 
tune on her twenty-first birthday. She is only just ‘out,’ 
and simply mad about art. She would probably think 
a son of Arrow’s a little god on earth. I gave her one 
of your husband’s autographs the last time we met. If 


210 


MARY 


I remember rightly, she kissed it and capped her action 
by the unromantic remark that the paper smelled stale. 
Anyway, she gave it the place of honor in a royal auto- 
graph book. I should like to see Oliver united to this 
dark, supple daughter of Spain. Her mother lives in 
Paris and is in the best Spanish society there. The girl 
often comes over to stay with us ; she is immensely ad- 
mired.” 

Constance was too absorbed by the thought of her 
dark-eyed friend to notice Josephine’s anxious expres- 
sion. The speaker pictured a graceful form and a face 
glowing with youth, in which deeply set, dark eyes 
laughed out upon the world, while the listener had visions 
of stilettos and the passionate love which a breath of 
suspicion could turn to passionate hate. 

“I think,” said Josephine quietly, “I should prefer 
him to marry an English girl. But surely it must be 
getting late, and I ought to be starting for my train.” 

Constance shook her head. 

“I don’t think you are quite up to traveling before 
to-morrow,” she declared. “I am having your room pre- 
pared and sending Arrow a wire to say we have per- 
suaded you to stay the night. Then, in the morning, 
when you are quite yourself again, I will take you round 
the school of gardening and afterward you can go back 
in the cool of the evening. I will lend you everything 
and we shall love to keep you a little longer.” 

For a moment Josephine appeared riveted to her 
chair, then she sprang to her feet with such keen resolve 
written in every line of her face that Constance hardly 
recognized her as the same woman who a moment since 
smilingly discussed Oliver’s future. 

“It would be impossible for me to stay,” she replied 
decidedly, and her expression betrayed a painful picture 


“WHY NOT?” 


211 


of mental distress. “I could not leave Arrow alone. He 
would be terribly nervous about me, and it is very bad 
to upset him when he is working so hard.” 

Constance tried to soothe her with a quick rejoinder: 

“Oh! of course we will not say you have been ill. 
Time enough to explain when you return, and he sees 
for himself there is nothing to be alarmed at. We can 
easily make some other excuse in the telegram.” 

With hurried fingers Josephine adjusted her veil. 
Every eager movement betrayed she had no intention of 
remaining. She thrust her hatpins through fine straw 
and soft, wavy hair with a fierce onslaught of a will de- 
termined to venture forth, alive or dead, whatever Con- 
stance’s persuasive voice might say to the contrary. As 
the easy-going woman watched these quick preparations 
for departure she found Josephine a complete enigma. 
Her very fingers appeared to perform their task of 
adornment with the touch of mechanism, as though some 
artificial force drove the spirit within to unnatural re- 
bellion against a hidden foe. 

“I suppose, then, I cannot induce you to be reason- 
able,” sighed Constance. “But I really do think it is 
very rash to travel back after that bad faint.” 

In her heart the speaker was saying : 

“Surely you are not jealous of Mary? It could not 
possibly be that. Such an idea is too absurd, quite 
unworthy of Josephine.” 

She longed to speak the thought aloud, but refrained. 
Such words would have appeared sacrilegious to one 
who so recently bestowed upon Mary the sacred essence 
of worship, inspired by wonder, gratitude and a realiza- 
tion of the purity and holiness of spiritual influence. 

Josephine threw off all semblance of illness and smiled 
suddenly upon Constance with a sense of complete mas- 


MARY 


212 

tery over self. If the smile were artificial, it held at 
least some strong inward conviction, revealing mental 
resolve which triumphed over physical weakness. Yet 
the note of confidence which had existed between these 
two friends throughout the day seemed to have broken 
mysteriously. They were far apart now, mere acquaint- 
ances in thought and word. Involuntarily Josephine 
steeled her mind against inquisitive suggestions, which 
Constance had no intention of making. As if fearful 
lest she should meet with unexpected delay, the guest 
manifested a nervous desire to leave. Divining this, 
Constance gave orders for the landaulet to be early at 
the door. After a hurried cup of tea, Mrs. Penreath 
departed, with renewed apologies for her illness, wearing 
an undisguised expression of relief that the moment 
had come to say good-bye.” 

“It is very odd,” declared Constance as she watched 
her friend drive away, “but when I tried to persuade 
Josephine to stay the night, she threw herself into a 
perfect frenzy of excitement and dread. She never had 
another easy moment until she got out of the house. I 
wonder what it all means ? She evidently has something 
on her mind.” 

Max listened to his wife’s words and shrugged his 
heavy shoulders. 

“Can’t you guess? It is all very clear to me. In 
her heart she does not like Mary Aquila sitting to her 
husband for this new picture. Mary is different, re- 
member, to a professional model, who just comes for a 
stated time. She is living on the estate. At present she 
is a fixture, and considering her beauty, one cannot be 
altogether surprised at Mrs. Penreath’s agitation.” 

Constance thought for a moment in silence, wrinkling 


“WHY NOT?” 


216 


her brow under the bandage and gazing down the drive 
at the vanishing car. 

“I wonder!” she murmured at last. “Poor Jose- 
phine !” 

The last two words were uttered in sympathy for one 
who could live near Mary and so misunderstand her 
peerless nature. 

“Why,” added Constance after a brief pause given 
to reflection, “thinking ill of Mary seems to me like 
looking into a clear brook and imagining that its crystal 
brightness is thick with mud and foul matter. Besides, 
after what I told her in the garden ” 

Here the speaker checked herself, but Max noticed 
the sudden rising of her color and the look of veiled 
confusion. 

“What did you tell her ?” he asked. 

Perhaps he knew in his heart that his wife would not 
give the true answer. She was quick in her endeavor 
to mislead him. 

“Oh! about the change which crept over the school 
almost immediately on Mary’s arrival. I tried to de- 
scribe her influence over the girls, but evidently I failed 
to impress Josephine, if you have guessed rightly.” 

Constance still looked down on the ground. She 
began digging the point of her walking-stick in the 
gravel and drawing aimless patterns. 

“Nothing more?” persisted Max. “You told her 
nothing more?” 

His tone was strangely searching, as if he suspected 
something. 

His wife prevaricated. 

“What more could I tell? I am sure I do not remem- 
ber all we said. We were talking such a long time, and 


214s MARY 

then when she fainted it put the conversation entirely 
out of my thoughts.” 

The two sauntered down the drive together, turning 
in the direction of the Tudor garden. 

“Did Mrs. Penreath see Babs?” asked the man. 

Constance nodded, trying to make the movement as 
casual as possible, then murmured in an offhand tone : 

“Yes, Josephine saw Babs.” 

Max quickened his steps, raising his head as if to 
drink in the warm air with animal satisfaction. He 
loved the sun and the wind. All the year round his skin 
was burned a deep tan. He was the picture of a thor- 
ough outdoor man, a lover of country life and freedom. 

“I suppose she noticed the change,” he said at last. 

Constance started. This was her husband’s first 
allusion to the improvement in their child. The wife 
still avoided his eyes and inwardly asked herself, “Can 
he know? Has he guessed? Did he ever see?” 

Then she answered with a little catch in her voice : 

“Josephine certainly thought Babs looked much 
brighter and better.” 

As she spoke Constance opened her well-stocked 
cigarette case, contemplated its contents and closed it 
again with a sigh. Possibly the lack of one arm made 
the simple act of lighting up tiresome to contemplate. 
Max fumbled for his matches as if to render assistance, 
then changed his mind and turned suddenly to the slim 
figure at his side. He gazed a moment at the cloud of 
red curls, which gave her such a peculiarly boyish ap- 
pearance. There was a waywardness about them that 
suggested character, free, untamed, eager for full, 
eventful life. Her face, too, indicated a happy-go- 
lucky nature, given to dodging misfortune, even when 
it stood at her very door, refusing the intruder admit- 


“WHY NOT?” 215 

lance, though he beat against the portals of her heart. 
Max wondered what was passing in her mind. 

“Do you remember the day Mary stopped us as we 
were starting to Rutherwyke?” he said. “You know 
she warned me to be careful of the children. She spoke 
in such a tone of authority, she quite took your breath 
away. I believe you thought I should be very angry.” 

Constance recalled the incident only too well. 

“Yes, I can see her face as if it had been yesterday. 
I was astonished you accepted her advice so calmly. 
If any one else, especially in her position, had dared to 
suggest such a thing, I can just picture how furious it 
would have made you.” 

They were nearing the garden of roses, their favorite 
spot, and Constance moved to a quaint carved seat in 
the scented bower of blossom. Some of the pale blush 
leaves had fallen on the path of ancient red brick, and, 
lying there in sweet abandonment, gave just an extra 
touch of poetry to the scene. 

“I might, as you say,” replied Max, “have lost my 
temper with any one else, but I knew, just as well as 
you knew, little wife, all the interest that good woman 
had taken in our child. I watched from a distance; I 
prayed in silence. There was a time when you appeared 
blind ; I marveled at your high spirits, and had not the 
heart to make you realize that Babs gave me no pleas- 
ure. Instead, the very sight of her inflicted pain. So I 
tried to forget my grief, to go far afield, with the rest- 
lessness of suffering.” 

Constance leaned against him feebly. She was look- 
ing back into the past. Yes, she had indeed been blind, 
but not in the way he thought. Her husband’s sorrow 
escaped her ; she had never looked deeply into his soul. 
She shut him out, she insulted his intellect by supposing 


216 


MARY 


him callous and unobservant, while all the time he was 
shrinking back to avoid a blow which might have been 
easier to bear had they faced it hand in hand. 

“Poor old Max !” she murmured . “Why didn’t you 
tell me ? How could I know when you said nothing ? And 
then you always seemed so happy.” 

He touched the bright hair lovingly, it was so close 
to his shoulder. 

“I wanted to keep you in ignorance as long as pos- 
sible,” he answered. “To see you saddened by the 
knowledge was the crowning pain I dreaded in the 
future.” 

As he spoke she remembered all the sacrificial instincts 
which held her dumb, and the thought that they had 
been returned in secret through that period of dark- 
ness warmed her heart with a glow of grateful appre- 
ciation. 

“It was very good of you,” she murmured. “I know 
just how hard it must have been to keep silent.” 

Her voice betrayed her thoughts. The meaning tone 
gave him the key to her mind. 

“How do you know?” he queried, raising her chin 
with his hand, looking long and deeply into the bright 
face. “Was it that you held back for the same reason? 
Were we mutually deceiving one another, Con?” 

She pursed up her lips temptingly, and he bent to 
their invitation. 

“Something of the sort, I fancy,” she whispered. 
“But it was a miracle, wasn’t it, Max, a miracle worked 
by Mary — the wonderful change in Babs?” 

He did not answer for a moment. A bird overhead 
burst into full-throated song, chanting the vespers of 
the rose garden from his perch on a flower-crowned 
pillar. 


“WHY NOT?” 217 

“Mary knew the way,” replied Max gently. “She is 
very clever with children.” 

He was too lenient to rob Constance of her theory. A 
miracle was a wide term, but to him the word influence 
made the stronger demand on his masculine reason. 

“You don’t believe in miracles,” she said. 

He answered with quick assurance: 

“Indeed I do. All nature is miraculous, ourselves, 
these flowers, the sunlight, and why not Mary?” 

Constance laughed at his evasion. 

“Yes, why not Mary?” she said, “if I like to think 
it is so.” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE SOUE OF THE EILIES 

J OSEPHINE had never looked happier ; her face was 
wreathed in smiles and her eyes were bright with 
the sparkle of girlhood, for this was the day of Oliver’s 
return. 

To Arrow it was much as other days, but to the 
mother everything appeared changed. She felt a little 
hurt Oliver had not come back to Rutherwyke at the 
close of the Easter term, preferring to visit a college 
friend, whose home was in the North. But now at last 
the happy date of reunion dawned, and all disappoint- 
ment was forgotten in the joyful anticipation of wel- 
coming her son. Frequently in letters home he men- 
tioned Rye Ireland with affectionate admiration, and 
just a slight pang of unacknowledged jealousy would 
assert its presence in the heart of Josephine. 

Yet she had written warmly enough in reply, sug- 
gesting that Mr. Ireland should be asked to Rutherwyke 
during the summer vacation. 

But Oliver answered evasively that Rye was not quite 
the sort to enter into the social program sketched by 
Mrs. Penreath for her son’s entertainment. Involun- 
tarily she asked herself what “not quite the sort” could 
mean. Was this bosom friend of Oliver’s beneath him 
in position, a rough, uncultured fellow whom he feared 
to bring into their social circle? If so, why had he 
218 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


219 


visited the Irelands in the North, a visit of which he 
certainly gave no details? With her usual tact she re- 
frained from showing any curiosity or suspicion, con- 
vinced it would be far easier to draw from Oliver the 
details of this friendship in casual conversation. At 
present he was delightfully transparent, accustomed to 
talk freely of his doings. Only of late her quick 
mother-instinct divined a more serious note in the brief 
pages of news sent at rather long intervals from Trinity 
College. At first Oliver described Rye Ireland as a “fine 
all-round sportsman and a double-Blue,” adding that at 
football he was the finest half-back the team had known 
for years. Later he was referred to as a deep thinker 
and a student who might make his mark in the world of 
letters. 

All this made Oliver’s refusal to bring him to Ruther- 
wyke the more incomprehensible. Once or twice Jose- 
phine mentioned the fact to Arrow, and only realized, 
after a long pause, her husband’s mind was far away, 
and her statements had fallen on inattentive ears. It 
was one of Arrow’s most trying habits that he appeared 
to be listening, subsequently revealing by some irrele- 
vant remark that his companion’s words were spoken to 
the air alone. 

But to-day any misgivings as to the wisdom of Oli- 
ver’s college friendships were dismissed absolutely from 
Josephine’s glad thoughts. It was such brilliant 
weather, picked by the gods for the coming of her boy. 
In his young life she lived again, traveling back to the 
romantic standpoint of eighteen summers. She recalled 
her days of girlish enthusiasm. How wonderful it had 
been to dance through the night to sweet strains of 
music, to see in fresh, attractive faces the possible part- 
ner of years to come! “Did men think of marriage at 


MARY 


220 

such an early age?” she asked herself, “or would sport 
and the fascination of athletics naturally predominate, 
diverting their minds from the poetry of life’s spring- 
time?” Of course she knew there was no golden rule. 
To some Cupid whispered through the April sunshine of 
child-like hearts, while others never heeded his intrusion 
till ripe summer reigned or the gentle touch of autumn 
warned them not to delay. At present she only wanted 
Oliver to enjoy his freedom, that she might share in his 
youthful pleasures and revive the old sensations of van- 
ished days, fondly remembered, when she and Arrow 
fought to win the world. 

Josephine had never experienced a keener desire to 
look young and beautiful for her son’s homecoming. 
With artful fingers she cajoled her hair to assume its 
most enticing aspect. She was not a vain woman, but 
as the wife of an artist, who turned in disgust from all 
that was unlovely, she regarded the study of personal 
appearance as a sacred duty, a rite to be practiced re- 
ligiously at the matrimonial shrine, in order to please 
Arrow’s critical eye. She knew at heart she was not 
witty or intellectual enough to rely entirely upon her 
personal fascination. She must understand and master 
the power of outward charm, using its subtle influence 
on the mind of man. To Josephine the blending of col- 
ors and the study of perfect outline appeared as price- 
less achievements. Less talented women, with smaller 
banking accounts, would marvel at Mrs. Penreath’s har- 
monious appearance, wondering how she attained such 
a soothing and artistic effect, since she never gave the 
impression of extravagance. They little guessed how 
diligently she trained herself to attain this enviable 
grace and dignity or the lavish expenditure incurred 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 221 

over apparently trifling details which made up the im- 
portant whole. 

In Arrow’s sight she was a perfectly natural woman, 
with a talent for preserving her good looks. Josephine 
triumphed in her knowledge of this fact. Oliver, too, 
should feel that his mother was strangely young and 
lovable. Frankly, she told herself that the woman who 
could not shine as a queen in her domestic kingdom and 
conquer the hearts of her own menkind was unworthy of 
her sex. The grumbling mother and the nagging wife 
appeared in her eyes almost as objectionable as the 
drunkard or the gambler. In the small details of life 
Josephine never failed. As Oliver would arrive at tea- 
time, she arranged that a dainty little meal should be 
ready for the traveler by the old stone fountain. Wicker 
tables and easy chairs made an inviting encampment. 
How home-like and refreshing after hours spent in a 
hot railway carriage to find this cool haven in the shade 
of the Rutherwyke trees ! Wisely she selected the most 
picturesque spot in the garden, where the splash of fall- 
ing water whispered of rest and sweet contentment. 
Josephine knew, as the sun stole down to its crimson 
setting and the shadows grew long and mysterious over 
flower-bed and lawn, she would hear all her boy’s con- 
fidences as of old. She liked to fancy that for his com- 
ing the first fair lilies opened welcoming petals, giving 
forth their full strength of pungent sweetness. Surely 
for him the climbing roses ran riot in thick profusion of 
color, curled leaf and lavish cluster, the ramblers he 
always looked for so eagerly at this time of year. Like 
Arrow and herself, he took an intense pride in the life 
of the garden. It was a dear friend, affecting the 
thoughts of distant loved ones; it was part of the Pen- 
reaths’ existence, this flower-world of their own. 




MARY 


Josephine decided not to meet Oliver at the station, 
since his luggage was always rather a formidable affair, 
and she preferred to be found seated by the tea-table, 
ready to administer to his wants. She wore a girlishly 
simple muslin frock, which the youthfulness of her 
figure made attractive, and a hat of gossamer lightness, 
shielding her face from possible sunburn. In his boyish 
letters Oliver had often called her “little fairy mother” 
and other terms of affectionate admiration. She had 
cast a spell over him as a child, and in manhood the 
vision must not fade to mundane reality. Very wisely 
this woman, harmless as a dove, wove round herself a 
halo of brightness to hold those dear to her and present 
a pleasing picture to the world. 

Oliver, driving through Abbotts Brooke, looked 
eagerly from right to left, recognizing familiar faces 
and friendly salutations. With the poor of the village 
the breezy, high-spirited boy, grown rapidly to man- 
hood, was a popular figure whom they hailed as friend. 
Many a kind deed of Master Oliver’s was recorded, usu- 
ally capped by some amusing quotation explained by the 
remark: “For there! he’s such a one for a joke!” 

As the carriage drove up Pilgrim’s Way he signed 
to the coachman to stop at the garden gate, remarking 
he would walk through the grounds to the house. The 
path was one of his favorites, leading through the lily 
garden to the fountain, where he knew his mother would 
be waiting. He loved the long stately lines of Madonna 
lilies, the beautiful old white specimen grown in England 
since the end of the sixteenth century. He was gardener 
enough to realize the capricious nature of these flowers 
and to have heard many contradictory reports as to the 
soil which best suited them. At Rye Ireland’s home, a 
castle with vast stretches of flowering acres, the lilies 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


223 


refused to flourish, while in a simple cottage garden in 
the village they reared stately buds. Possibly the shel- 
tered spot of the humble abode explained the lilies’ 
preference for natural, unprepared soil. 

Never before had the Rutherwyke lilies triumphed 
over every obstacle with such a brave show of health. 
They stood, a white regiment, shoulder to shoulder, on 
each side of the path, making an avenue of bloom. Oli- 
ver had seen the Madonna lily luxuriating in hot, dry, 
sloping gardens, in sunny walks and shady positions 
sheltered by trees or buildings, but until now Ruther- 
w} r ke failed to produce such full, proud glory, such 
grand texture. The scent was so powerful and peculiar 
that it seemed as if the air for miles around must carry 
to distant hamlets the perfume of those tender, wax- 
like leaves. 

Oliver paused, spellbound by this wealth of pure 
beauty. The fragrance so piercing, yet delicious, 
seemed half stunning him after the close railway jour- 
ney. He felt intoxicated by these flowering stems, pre- 
senting their wealth of wondrous blossom to his aston- 
ished eyes. Their subtlety stole through the summer 
air and stirred his senses strangely. He fancied the 
influence of the pungent odor took a direct personality, 
growing and strengthening with every breath he drew. 
He was enveloped in the soul of the lilies. They were 
spirit forms peopling the garden, they whispered mes- 
sages, they held music, they were angels chanting the 
hymns of the spheres. The surprising dimensions of the 
blooms which opened pale lips to droning bees, rocking 
their joyful bodies from petal to petal and diving deep 
into the heart of prodigal sweetness startled and mysti- 
fied him. It was a feast of life and rejoicing, a table 
spread of wide, succulent leaves, whose fragrance took 


MARY 


possession of the very atmosphere, making it their own. 
It was a lavish invitation accepted by winged insects in 
their sunny glory, a garden of vast inspiration, a natu- 
ral cloister in which a saint might walk with measured 
tread, holy eyes and sacred, elevated thoughts. Gradu- 
ally he became conscious something unusual was about 
to happen. It amounted to a sure conviction, a strong 
disturbing thought, an intuitive knowledge. The old 
familiar garden held an air of mystery, beautiful yet 
paralyzing; it was new, with the enchantment of some 
incomprehensible element. But how had the place 
changed? Why did everything appear so wondrously 
attractive? For years he walked down that same path 
at lily-time, but the flowers never possessed such an 
amazing personality or bore a spiritual message. In 
the past he thought of them merely as pretty acquisi- 
tions to the garden, but to-day he wondered if really 
they could claim some twinship with angelic choirs, 
whispering of unseen witnesses through the veined chan- 
nels of their leaves. The splendor of their presence 
flooded the grounds of Rutherwyke with overwhelming 
whiteness. Their stems trembled at the faintest breath 
of wind, making a sensitive movement, uncanny in its 
response to influences. Then, as the gentle movement 
ceased, a deep, soulful stillness fell on the broad borders 
like the lull following a storm. 

Suddenly upon the glistening path a figure appeared 
with lowered eyes and soft, slow steps. It was Mary 
coming from the studio on her way to the cottage which 
had once been Monk’s. She looked strangely pale, yet 
radiantly beautiful, as, unconscious of Oliver’s presence, 
she passed down the avenue of Madonna lilies. 

Possibly she was tired from her ceaseless endeavor 
to inspire in Arrow Penreath the true essence of the 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


225 

character he endeavored to portray. The artist was 
now at the stage when, to his own astonishment, he 
sought advice from his model. Often she would move 
to his side and give him the benefit of her ideas. In the 
past he could picture himself laughing to scorn the very 
notion that a lady gardener, unskilled in the art of 
painting, could possibly offer him any helpful sugges- 
tions. But suddenly his assurance in self failed, and he 
turned to the woman, who appeared to know instinct- 
ively how to make the canvas live. Sometimes she stood 
close beside him, and laying one hand on his arm, pointed 
with the other to details in the work unworthy of her 
ideal. The touch of those light fingers on his sleeve 
appeared to wake in his brain some entirely new train of 
thought, to obliterate the weary sensation produced by 
natural fatigue and revive the smoldering energies till 
they blazed into a furnace of ambitious longing. 

No work completed in the past could touch the high 
level of this new endeavor. It was more than a picture 
to him, it was almost a living creation, a figure of flesh 
and blood, with speaking eyes, parted lips, heaving 
breast. 

Only that same afternoon, as Oliver made his way to 
the lily-garden, Arrow exclaimed in a burst of admira- 
tion : 

“The picture asks the world to take away the prayers 
they offer at Mary’s shrine, and see, the woman here is 
so alive, so beautiful, so pure, she defeats her own pur- 
pose ; she almost makes me kneel to her in prayer.” 

As he spoke he saw the color fade in his model’s 
cheeks. For the moment he fancied she drooped like a 
flower beneath the first blast of winter, and it seemed 
that the life in the real Mary was passing into the 
visionary form on his easel. Then she moved to the 


226 MARY 

door, and throwing it open, leaned against the broad oak 
paneling. 

“I am tired,” she confessed for the first time — “ter- 
ribly tired.” 

Until now, through all the long, hot days, no murmur 
had passed her lips. 

“Tired!” he exclaimed, as if such a thing were im- 
possible. 

She made a silent sign of assent. 

He looked at his watch impatiently. 

“Dear me ! It’s five o’clock, and Oliver will be back. 
How the hours fly ! I suppose you want me to let you 
off. I had hoped to work till seven.” 

Mary turned away. 

“Then you must work alone,” she said softly, and 
was gone. 

So light her step, he could half believe she vanished 
into thin air before his eyes. He passed his hand over 
his forehead, then looking again, saw that the door had 
closed without a sound. He glanced back at the picture, 
and the pleading face gave him a guilty sensation when 
he remembered his words : 

“She almost makes me kneel to her in prayer.” 

He addressed the painting timidly, feeling as if Mary 
Aquila must still be near him : 

“You will make men pray perchance to the Son you 
bore, but you will never make them forget His mother. 
They will see your face, hear your message and you will 
lift them to the very gate of heaven.” 

The silent room accentuated the whispered comment, 
and only the long pause which followed made him realize 
Mary was no longer there. 

As she stole away from the studio door she passed 
through the grounds with downcast, tear-dimmed eyes. 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 227 

avoiding the distant fountain where Josephine sat wait- 
ing by the tea-table for the coming of her boy. 

If Mary saw Oliver, she paid no heed to his presence. 
His shadow might have been cast by one of the tall 
flowering stems. As she drew nearer, he clearly per- 
ceived she was*unaware that a human occupant stepped 
back and stood against the mass of wondrous bloom. 
The blue of her gown by the hedge of lilies enhanced her 
Madonna-like appearance, and just for a moment Oliver 
thought he was dreaming, as this woman of unmistak- 
able beauty transformed the scene into a living poem. 

He dared not speak or break the spell. He did not 
question where she came from — who she* was. Enough 
for him that in her eyes, raised a moment to the dazzling 
sun, sacred fires gleamed mysteriously, while her fea- 
tures held all the purity of the lily in its prime. Sud- 
denly he seemed to understand the true significance of 
this wondrous vision. When first he came upon the 
flowers and paused, entranced by that vast regiment of 
blossom, she was nearing the spot and it was her in- 
fluence, combined with the scent of the lilies, which set 
them chanting the music of the spheres heard only by 
his waking soul. 

Had she not passed so near to him that he could touch 
her garments, Oliver would have mistrusted his own 
sight. 

She was so unlike the earth-women of his acquaint- 
ance. The pure tone of her skin borrowed its spiritual 
whiteness from the lily. Her very movements reminded 
him of a pale sunlit cloud sailing across a sky of blue. 

He opened his lips to speak, but no words came. He 
watched her with dilated eyes and fast-beating heart 
until she was out of sight. Then he drew a deep breath. 
The blood rushed to his head. He turned dizzy and the 


MARY] 


228 

lilies whirled before his gaze in rapid flight. Yet he 
knew in reality they still stood proudly, giving their 
sweetness to greedy, rollicking bees. 

As the sensation of giddiness passed he forgot his 
mother waiting eagerly by the fountain, forgot she 
would know by the returning carriage he was already in 
the garden, and turned, as if compelled, in the direction 
of Monk’s cottage. He felt he must look once again, to 
make sure his e3^es had not deceived him. He wanted to 
convince himself that the figure in blue was really a 
living human being and no fancy of his brain, conjured 
up by the mysterious magic of the lilies. 

He noticed, as the cottage came in sight, how spot- 
lessly white its walls appeared against the background 
of green. He had never fully appreciated before the 
picturesque beauty of this small building. He drew 
near shyly, longing to peep in at the window for a 
glimpse of the woman who vanished from sight through 
the open door. 

He crept up on tiptoe by a side path and could see 
distinctly through the open casement into Mary’s 
plainly furnished room. She was seated on a wooden 
chair, with Sam upon her knee, his tiny arms securely 
fastened round her neck and his soft baby cheek resting 
against her shoulder. In lisping language he was tell- 
ing her the details of his sunny hours. She smiled over 
the story of childhood’s guileless joys, tempered by 
small but earnest labors in a tiny plot of ground known 
as “Sam’s garden !” 

Oliver watched Mary’s eyes kindle with all the tender 
sympathy of motherhood, and he never doubted for a 
moment this was her child. Fascinated by the picture, 
eager to break in with some question to the pretty 
golden-haired boy, the traveler never noticed Josephine 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


229 


coming quickly down the garden path, with tremulous 
expectation written on her face. For a moment she 
paused to gaze at the figure by the window. There stood 
the son who had tarried too long at Rye Ireland’s home, 
still so engrossed by new influences that his mother’s 
longing for sight, speech and touch escaped his memory. 
Surely he must feel her nearness now, must guess how 
she ached to hold him to her heart. He would turn and 
catch the light in those hungry eyes, fixed upon him with 
their warm invitation. They would undoubtedly draw 
him to her, if only by the power of unshed tears. 

Suddenly Oliver bent forward, his arms were on the 
window-sill now, and he was speaking to the inmates of 
the cottage. A moment later and Sam’s curly head ap- 
peared. The child was evidently standing on a chair, 
which made him even taller than the visitor. 

Fearful lest Mary should see her, Josephine turned 
away, too sick with disappointment to join the trio and 
meet her boy in the society of others. She had thought 
all day of that first sweet hour alone, when he would 
spring from the carriage and draw her toward the cozy 
chairs under the Rutherwyke trees. 

Slowly Josephine returned, to wait patiently until 
it should please Oliver to seek her by the fountain. She 
told herself, with a forced smile, she did not mind. A 
mother’s claim was so great, that she could afford to 
step back occasionally and wait until the world proved 
to the son that the mother-heart held for him the purest 
gold. She hated jealous people ; it was such an insult to 
themselves, such a compliment to others. She had no 
wish to flatter, even by a thought, the lady gardener 
and her protege, known in the past as “Benn’s brat.” 
Yet the garden had lost its beauty and the sky looked 
gray to her now. After a day of excited anticipation. 


230 MARY 

this longed-for hour appeared strangely empty and 
colorless. 

Porterton brought out tea, with a surprised glance 
toward the empty chair. 

“I thought Mr. Oliver was here, madam,” he said. 
“Shall I sound the gong or take the tea back?” 

Josephine was too proud to summon her son. She 
made a sign to Porterton to deposit his burden in its 
warm cozy on the tray. 

“Mr. Oliver will be here in a minute,” she replied. 
“You need not sound the gong.” 

She did not want Porterton to suspect she had already 
seen the traveler, without a word of greeting or a wel- 
coming smile, as a stranger from afar, whose very pres- 
ence was forgotten. Josephine watched the man retire, 
then clasped her hands and sat staring with vacant eyes 
at the smoothly mown grass. She had no dreams now 
of what the future would bring; she was just forcing 
her mind to remain blank. So successful was the at- 
tempt that she did not hear Oliver’s step upon the lawn 
until his shadow fell across her line of vision. Then she 
sprang up with a little cry of joy. 

The young arms caught her in their strong, boyish 
embrace. 

Oliver’s kisses seemed wiping away all the misery of 
the past few moments. He looked so pleased — so very 
pleased to see the loved face again. 

“I have a confession to make,” he said, “and I believe 
you know already what it is or you would have come to 
find me. I went to the gardener’s cottage to talk to a 
sweet little child and look at a beautiful woman. I fol- 
lowed a blue-gowned figure from the lily borders, partly 
because I thought she was a dream. I did not know any 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 231 

one could have quite such a saintly face. Mother, do 
you think she is a saint in disguise?” 

His evident earnestness, his open enthusiasm showed 
Josephine he had no idea of hiding his thoughts from 
her. He was just the same warm-hearted Oliver who 
had left her in the spring. 

She passed over the subject of Mary in a few light 
words. Miss Aquila, she acknowledged, had a very 
lovely as well as a very good face, and doubtless a num- 
ber of people, if the truth were known, came under the 
category of saints. Then before he could pursue the 
conversation, she was asking him questions about him- 
self and pressing upon him delicious home-made cakes. 
Once more her heart sang the glad songs of youth re- 
vived as she remembered her elaborate plans for Oliver’s 
summer entertainment. 

She w r as quite ready to unfold them as she stirred her 
tea and added more cream to his cup. 

“I have been thinking, Oliver,” she began confiden- 
tially, “that Rutherwyke wants waking up. Your 
father and I have drifted into a terrible groove, and, 
after all, we are not such very old people.” 

She laughed joyously at the words, well aware of her 
faculty for preserving a youthful appearance and con- 
scious that she possessed social gifts of no mean order, 
only awaiting resurrection until Oliver’s manhood. Cer- 
tainly he appeared grown enough to warrant this sudden 
awakening of forces which had slept through many a 
long year. 

She paused to read in his eyes the excited interest her 
words demanded. Instead she observed no encourage- 
ment and momentarily wondered if her sight deceived 
her. Possibly he did not understand that she referred 
to a round of social engagements and a scheme for 


232 


MARY 


entertaining both the county families and numerous 
London friends. 

“You know,” she continued, “this place is positively 
ideal as a setting for garden parties, balls, dinners or 
anything you like to name. We have so much room, we 
need never be overcrowded. It is quite easy for friends 
to motor here from town. I am anxious you should 
start life in a really good set, and I can arrange it so 
easily if I just trouble to look people up. Not every 
one could drop out of the world and then expect to 
beckon society back all in a moment. But it is safe for 
us — because of Arrow. I fancy you can hardly realize 
your father’s fame or the vast income derived from his 
pictures. His name will live as one of the greatest 
masters of his time. I want you to benefit by your re- 
lationship to so great a man. Do not underestimate his 
genius.” 

Oliver knew that his mother spoke truly and bowed 
his head in silent acquiescence. 

A sensation of fear knocked suddenly at Josephine’s 
heart as she watched her son’s knitted brow and grave 
unresponsive expression. Surely his face held some 
secret, to which he alone could give the key. If a mys- 
tery were to be solved, the explanation must come from 
him direct, and she waited for his answer with her nerves 
strung to a strange pitch of expectation. 

“Why don’t you speak, Oliver?” she asked, her voice 
trembling. “Have you some trouble on your mind? Oh ! 
you know I shall not be hard on you ; I can bear any- 
thing better than silence. I thought my suggestion 
would give such pleasure, instead you haven’t even 
smiled. If it were not so absurd, I could almost imagine 
you looked displeased. Yet my plans were all for you, 
dear — all for you and your happiness.” 


THE SOUL OF THE LILIES 


To-day Josephine’s low voice lost its note of studied 
artificiality and rang clear and true with the deep pas- 
sions of the heart. To Oliver’s ears it made terrible 
music. 

He looked up, and his face was utterly unreadable. 
A problem lurked in the thoughtful eyes, a puzzle 
reigned round the tightly compressed lips, while the 
clenched hands denoted his inward struggle to meet 
Josephine with absolute candor and bold sincerity, how- 
ever difficult the task. 

He glanced from right to left as if to make sure they 
were absolutely alone. He had the air of one who real- 
ized the work at hand must prove hard and painful, yet 
his expression denoted force of will, which gave the face 
new strength and the power, so rare in youth, of know- 
ing exactly what to do. 

Then, turning to Josephine, he drew his chair nearer 
and opened his lips to speak. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 

4 4 TV/C OTHER,” he said, “you must not think I am 
ungrateful. A few months ago those same 
suggestions of yours would have seemed to me — just as 
they seem to you now — utterly delightful.” 

She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. 

“My poor boy, you are in some trouble, which has 
made all this question of gaiety appear bitter and un- 
lovely in your eyes. How blind I have been ! Whatever 
the sorrow, just let me share your burden and make it 
my own. We can probably find the way to overcome all 
those hard trials which darken the future in your eyes.” 

She thought as she spoke of debts incurred, which 
might strain even Arrow’s purse, or of an early love 
affair, leaving him sore and wounded. So long as she 
could see Oliver before her in full health and strength 
she inwardly resolved, whatever the news, she would smile 
in the face of disaster and show him the silver lining to 
the cloud. She felt convinced she could drive the pain 
from his discouraged soul and plant brightness there 
instead. 

She hoped, indeed, that fate might give her an oppor- 
tunity of proving her devotion, that when she was no 
longer by his side he might remember her in connection 
with loving self-sacrifice. 

“You know,” she continued quickly, “I would give up 
anything for your happiness, dear.” 

234 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 


2S5 


He looked at her with deep yearning in his eyes. 

“I wonder,” he said, stifling a sigh, “if those words 
were put to the test, whether you would calmly act upon 
them without a murmur?” 

Josephine took his hand. There was something 
sublime in the smile she turned upon her boy. It was 
a smile to beautify mere human features into a sem- 
blance of divinity, pitying youth’s battle with a time- 
hardened world. It was the smile that defies fate and 
will never acknowledge failure. 

“Only try me,” she said. “Who should stand your 
friend, if not your mother? Shadow must come with 
sunshine. In life everything has its antithesis. I am 
ready to share the shade with you. It would be lonely 
out in the sunshine all by myself.” 

Oliver listened with faint suspicion lurking in his 
eyes. He had gradually discovered, within the last year, 
that his mother was a woman of less depth than she 
wished her critics to believe. Of late the realization 
came upon him with a sense of shock. She was a beauti- 
ful po sense — always ready to enhance the picturesque 
side of existence by making herself agreeable with sym- 
pathetic words and a decorative presence. He doubted 
how she would face any real trial. 

He glanced down now and spoke with hesitation. 

“You vow you would give up anything for my hap- 
piness?” 

His words were uttered in slow, uncertain accents. 

“Yes, Oliver, anything in the world. I would sooner 
die than fail you.” 

Josephine’s answer came quickly; she felt absolutely 
sure of herself. 

He shook his head, nevertheless, as he replied can- 
didly : 


236 


MARY 


“I very much doubt it, mother dear. Remember, you 
are speaking in ignorance of circumstances. That vow 
must be proved before I can believe its sincerity or rely 
on your good will.” 

She turned upon him a pair of glistening eyes, full 
of reproach at the apparently hard statement. 

“That does not sound like you, Oliver,” she declared. 
“Is it possible you cannot trust your mother? Surely I 
have never made unfulfilled promises. Look back at 
your childhood and let that speak for me.” 

Her injured tone gave him courage to continue. 
Perhaps, after all, he had misjudged her. 

“Well,” he murmured softly as his arm stole round 
her shoulder, “I do ask you to give up something you 
hold dear. I ask it from the bottom of my heart.” 

“Tell me,” she whispered half joyfully, for now she 
felt she was on the very brink of triumph. “If you want 
money and fear to approach your father, I can help you 
from my own savings. I could even sell my jewels. 
Nothing counts in comparison with your peace and 
future ease. You are my only child, and perhaps in 
time you will realize the strength of a mother’s love.” 

She felt as she spoke as if Oliver were all she had, 
since Arrow’s work so absorbed him he hardly appeared 
part of the home at all. He was a brilliant star shining 
from a distant firmament, engrossed, preoccupied, un- 
able to spare time for the small happenings of daily 
life. Very gently Josephine tried to explain this to her 
son, without in any way blaming her husband for the 
sense of loneliness from which she suffered. 

“Then, mother,” said Oliver, raising his head and 
speaking out in a clear, steady voice, “I ask you to give 
up all you have gladly and without a word of regret. I 
ask you to give me up, your only child. I realize it is 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 


237 


no light demand, especially under the circumstances, but 
I make it in the name of a Higher Power and for the 
sake of a call which is so distinct, so persistent — I hear 
it night and day — always saying the one word, ‘Come !’ 
It bids me leave father and mother; it draws me with 
irresistible force to Christ’s vineyard to labor for Him. 
I must obey and go far from you and Rutherwyke, to 
another continent. I don’t know for the moment just 
where my work will lie, but that does not rest in my 
hands, others more experienced will guide and direct me 
in my great endeavor.” 

He was not looking at his mother ; his gaze trav- 
eled to a bank of clouds drifting toward the setting sun, 
tinged by faint pink light. The words he had uttered 
apparently carried his thoughts from Josephine to some 
wonderful dreamland of spiritual ambition, a sphere 
where the toiler may rest and draw inspiration from a 
fountain of pure water, unseen by material eyes. 

Mrs. Penreath remained for the moment absolutely 
frozen. From head to foot the blood in her body con- 
gealed. Her heart stood still. She held her breath, as 
if in the throes of some awful nightmare, from which 
she must wake — or die. Had voice been given her she 
would not have dared ask her son to repeat his words. 
She tried to believe they existed in some wild fancy of 
her brain. Then gradually her nerves began to assert 
authority. Once more the circulation stirred in her 
veins, warning her of life and reality, turning her hot 
and cold with fierce sensations of paralyzed chill or 
burning indignation. At last, with a bitter sense of 
realization, she inwardly acknowledged she was singu- 
larly worldly and distressingly human. Had he told her 
of some disgraceful escapade, a liaison, the breaking of 
which would involve heavy expenditure, she knew she 


£38 


MARY 


could have faced the knowledge with heroic fortitude, 
piloting him to safety with the diplomatic skill of a 
woman of the world. But now she felt baffled, horrified, 
amazed. This boy, whom she pictured shining in so- 
ciety, appreciated, admired, sought after, asked her to 
give him up, to let him go far away to some distant con- 
tinent and work for the good of others. 

He mistook her silence for sympathy and his spirits 
rose. 

“Good little mother,” he said, “I might have known 
you would behave like a brick. It was very weak of me 
to misjudge your woman’s heart. It only shows how 
little I really understood you.” 

Josephine drew away from his encircling arm, and 
for the first time since he had spoken he fully met her 
eyes. Could they be the same eyes which gazed into his 
so lovingly a few minutes ago? Deep down in their 
depths of scorn and horror lay the look that might lurk 
in the glance of a tigress, ready to defend her young 
against malignant foes. The sockets were bloodshot, 
the expression wild and almost savage, no tears, only 
keen resentment and the knowledge of danger near at 
hand, which must be met and conquered. 

“Mother, why do you look at me like that? I hardly 
seem to know you. Are you ill?” 

She clenched her hands and turned to him with a fierce 
desire to hear the worst, to inflict self-torture sooner 
than cling to one soothing shred of ignorance or hope. 

“Have I rightly understood?” she asked quickly. “Is 
it possible you want to leave your home, your parents, 
your country, that you propose giving up your social 
position, your chances of success, to waste your life in 
some uncivilized corner of the globe — as a missionary? 
I cannot credit such a suggestion could be anything but 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 


239 


a fit of passing madness. Surely, if sane, you would 
hardly be so blind to your own interests or so unjust to 
us. How could you, Oliver Penreath, the son of whom 
I meant to be so proud, dream of giving up the world on 
the very threshold of manhood, to squander the best 
years of life in foreign lands ? Why, it does not bear a 
thought; it is impossible. If you like to take holy 
orders, by all means do so, and with brains, money and 
influence you may prove a credit to your parents yet, 
but for Heaven’s sake give up any idea of missionary 
work abroad, unless you would break your mother’s 
heart.” 

Oliver listened in silence. He could read in her tone 
all the agony of resentment, bringing her to the verge 
of hysteria. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “we had better discuss my future 
when you feel calmer and have become more accustomed 
to the idea.” 

His face gave no sign of relenting, his voice sounded 
harsh and unmoved. He gazed at her with mingled pity 
and disapproval. 

Angered by his manner, she answered him in raised 
accents of sharp decision : 

“No, we must talk now. Let us thrash this matter 
out. We can surely find some course which will satisfy 
you and yet banish forever any idea of this preposterous 
business. Your youth alone makes the proposition 
ridiculous.” 

He tossed his head, a familiar trick of childhood. 
He was on the defensive now and his color heightened. 

“Rye Ireland says one cannot begin too young,” he 
said shortly. 

The retort gave Josephine a fresh cue. So this was 


240 MARY 

Rye Ireland’s work. He was the enemy fighting for her 
child. 

“Now I understand,” she muttered, and Oliver could 
see how deadly white she had grown. “Your new friend 
put these absurd ideas into your head. He has mes- 
merized you into believing you have a vocation for 
wrestling with the souls of the heathen. A nice friend, 
indeed, to try and separate an only son from his 
parents !” 

Oliver’s color rose. 

“Please, mother, keep Ireland’s name out of this. His 
example has done more for me than any home influence. 
He is the only human being I have ever met who is near 
perfection. Though rich, he is giving up all for the 
splendid work and the heavenly reward. He knows I 
have a vocation and he wants me with him. We shall go 
away together. We shall give our lives if needful. 
There are few enough, God knows, ready and willing for 
sacrifice.” 

Josephine indulged a short laugh, which to Oliver 
touched the heights of cruelty and scorn. She saw him 
shrink from her as from something evil, yet she spoke 
her thoughts aloud, undaunted. 

“Indeed, you will do nothing of the kind, for I shall 
take care to see your father stops your allowance until 
you come to your senses and consult our wishes as to 
your future. I will talk to Mr. Ireland myself or write 
and explain the position to him. If he is all you say, he 
will be the last to further a family quarrel.” 

Oliver seemed unmoved by the threat, which puzzled 
Josephine’s watching eye. 

“It is entirely in your father’s hands,” she added. 
“You must acknowledge that. You would be penniless 
without his aid.” 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 241 

Her voice trembled with agitation, though she tried to 
appear calm. 

The young man shook his head. As his mother grew 
more excited he became strangely quiet and determined. 

“Rye believes I have the true missionary spirit. I 
should hardly like to tell you what he said about my 
preaching.” 

Josephine gave a little gasp. 

“You — you — preached !” 

“Yes, at a revival service in the North. Though the 
Irelands have such a magnificent place, they give half 
their income to further missions abroad, and they do 
not try to hinder their son’s work. But even if he met 
with opposition, he has an independent fortune, and 
because he pities my dependence on others, he has prom- 
ised to pay all my expenses should you or father refuse 
help. I told him I thought you might not like the choice 
I had made, and he quite understands. I shall not re- 
turn to college, as I expect to hear in a few days the 
date of our departure and all particulars of the 
journey.” 

The words were terribly final and so full of defiance 
that for the moment Josephine felt baffled. As she 
gradually recovered from her first sense of shock she 
realized that for once her old armor of diplomacy had 
fallen to pieces under the strain of anger. She was, 
after all, too human to play the actress when Fate drew 
her to the brink of personal suffering. She had allowed 
Oliver to see the real Josephine and thus lost ground. 
“How indeed could she expect to win him by reproaches 
and harsh words?” she asked herself inwardly as the 
truth drove home. It was evident some influence 
stronger than her own had set its seal upon Oliver’s life. 
His allusion to Rye Ireland revealed a hold which rose 


242 


MARY 


to formidable heights as she dwelt upon the significance 
of her son’s resolve. 

She did not attempt to argue further, the final an- 
nouncement appeared to crush her last hope, to rob her 
of defense. Fate rose against her, and since the boy 
could command money, if his parents cast him adrift, 
it was unlikely he would listen to advice or threats. He 
was in the mood to welcome hard living, poverty, labor, 
sacrifice. Nothing would turn him from his purpose 
now, save the bitter price of experience. 

She sat with clasped hands and a look of dumb misery 
on the face which less than an hour ago appeared so 
girlishly happy. Oliver watched the nervous twitching 
of her lips and the gathering tears beneath her lashes 
with a sense of vague misgiving. He wanted to comfort 
her, to make her see with his eyes, to bury forever her 
objections and misgivings. But suddenly he became 
painfully conscious of his youth. Limited knowledge of 
women and their ways closed his mother’s mind to him 
like a sealed book. He tried in vain to interpret her 
present attitude. Was it the slumbering of a volcano or 
a silent surrender to the will of God? He could not pre- 
tend to guess. He merely realized that his mother was 
thinking deeply. Her face betrayed signs of mental 
struggle and yet conveyed no message. He felt shut 
out, utterly alone, as if indeed some stranger were seated 
beside him, to whom he dared not make even a timid 
advance. To find himself thus in the presence of the 
mother he loved hurt his sensitive nature and made all 
the world look dark. Presently, just as he decided to 
break the unbearable silence, Josephine rose. She had 
dashed away her tears before they marred her delicate 
complexion and now turned toward the house, appar- 
ently unconscious of Oliver’s presence. 


A TALK BY THE FOUNTAIN 


Once again she had perfect control of herself, and her 
brain rather than her heart guided each studied move- 
ment. 

Oliver sprang up, following hotly at her heels. His 
pleading voice at her elbow struck her as singularly 
boyish. 

“I say, mother, you are not going to take it like this, 
surely? You never did sulk.” 

She walked on, quickening her steps. 

“You can talk to me again,” she said slowly, “when 
the date of your departure is decided and Mr. Ireland 
sees fit to send you particulars of the journey.” 

The cold, passionless words silenced Oliver. Then 
already she accepted the position. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, and perhaps it 
was well for Josephine she did not allow herself to turn 
and catch his crestfallen expression. 

“Back to the house. I want to speak to your father, 
but I think you had better not disturb him until he is 
ready to leave the studio. You see, he knew you would 
be home at tea-time and did not trouble to join us. I 
can tell him of your safe arrival. We dine as usual at 
eight.” 

The words sounded oddly formal, but Oliver was too 
young to guess the effort they cost his mother. He 
experienced an uncomfortable sensation of being shut 
out f rom all the loving intimacy of old days. 

“Very well,” he answered shortly. “I’ll go round the 
garden alone.” 

He strode off in the direction of the Monk’s Walk. 

Directly he was out of sight Josephine quickened her 
steps, almost running to the studio. 

She did not wait to knock, but burst in upon Arrow 
with heaving chest and blazing eyes. 


MARY 


244 

Her husband was seated alone before his picture, 
studying the work with such a concentrated expression, 
she paused, half fearing to address him. 

He looked up, nodded in her direction, smiled and 
glanced back at the pictured face of “Mary.” 

Josephine went quickly to his side. 

“Arrow,” she said, “Arrow,” and clasped her hands 
about his neck. 

The tears she had held back so long suddenly broke 
forth, while her body shook with deep sobs. 

The man, roused from his dream of work, caught the 
trembling figure in supporting arms. He could almost 
have fancied the reflection of his wife’s tears gleamed in 
the life-like eyes shining out from the canvas, with their 
strangely living expression. 

As J osephine wept she was dimly aware he still gazed 
at the marvelously realistic portrait of Mary Aquila. 
The power of the face, the words spoken by Constance 
Eastlake, the many small happenings tinged with mys- 
terious significance, wrung from Josephine’s heart a 
whispered confession, quite incomprehensible to Arrow: 

“Mary must help us. Mary will help us. He — Oliver 
— went to her first !” 


CHAPTER XVII 


MARY THE MOTHER 



LIVER did not meet his father until Arrow ap- 


peared dressed for dinner. He greeted his son 
cheerfully, as if nothing unusual had occurred, though 
his manner was slightly abstracted. Oliver knew this 
as a sign of overwork, and immediately questioned him 
about his latest picture. 

“It is a biblical subject, and I dare say your mother 
told you Miss Aquila is sitting to me. I am painting 
her as the Virgin Mary. We hope the picture will carry 
a somewhat unexpected and startling lesson.” 

Oliver had never heard his father use the word “we” 
before in connection with his art. The small incident 
set his son thinking. 

“If it is like Miss Aquila, I could imagine the face 
alone would make men better and women purer,” an- 
swered the young man with strange earnestness. 

As Oliver spoke he watched the door anxiously for 
the appearance of Josephine. Arrow followed the di- 
rection of his eyes. 

“Your mother is dining in her room, she did not feel 
well enough to come down,” said the artist as if in 
answer to a direct question. 

Oliver started, an expression of mingled annoyance 
and guilt creeping over his face. 

“Not well,” he stammered. “I’ll run up and see her.” 

Arrow laid a detaining hand on his arm. 


245 


24G 


MARY 


“No, she particularly asked to be alone — in fact, to 
put it plainly, she does not wish to see you again to- 
night. Your talk of going away has upset her very 
much. She quite broke down in my studio and declared 
she could not appear before the servants with red eyes 
to cause comment. So you must be content with my 
society for this evening, and after dinner I shall be 
interested to hear your plans for the future.” 

The calm tone puzzled Oliver. Was there not a spice 
of hidden sarcasm in the voice addressing him so 
suavely? He felt chilled and uncomfortable. His 
mother’s indisposition would naturally be laid at his 
door, and her desire for complete solitude cut deeply. 

“I am sorry if anything I said upset mother,” he 
murmured lamely. “You see, she cannot understand the 
bracing influence of people like the Irelands. When I 
am with Rye or his parents it seems the most natural 
thing in the world that I should accept the call, but 
here — well, here it appears ” 

He hesitated for the right word, and Arrow supplied 
it with a rather hard smile : “The most unnatural, eh ?” 

The sudden announcement of dinner cut short the 
conversation, much to Oliver’s relief. He followed his 
father sadly to the familiar dining-room, which looked 
so strange without Josephine — almost as if she were 
dead, he thought. He ate with little appetite, for the 
night seemed full of oppression, the air was heavy and 
his mother’s vacant seat appeared an open reproach, 
which constantly attracted his eye. He asked many 
questions about her during the meal. What had she 
been doing lately? Was her health good? Did she 
often suffer from headaches? 

Arrow’s evasive replies revealed his ignorance. Later 
on he vouchsafed a mild explanation. 


MARY THE MOTHER 




“You see,” he said, by way of apologizing for his lack 
of knowledge, “I have been so tied to my easel that 
really I see very little of your mother just now. She is 
extremely good when I am busy, never troubles me with 
mundane matters or resents the long hours given to 
work.” 

Oliver was not quite satisfied with the reply. He 
looked rather sternly at his father. 

“But you have the evenings together. Surely then 
she tells you the details of the day.” 

Arrow disliked cross-examination. He sipped his 
wine with a little shrug of weary shoulders. 

“At night I am often too tired to talk. Josephine is 
very tactful; she knows when to be silent.” 

Oliver took the hint and asked no more questions. 
His father leaned back in the large oak chair, resting 
his hands on its broad arms, apparently desirous of the 
silence his wife respected with unselfish resignation. 

Already the servants were handing dessert; in a few 
minutes father and son would be alone. Oliver refused 
wine, cigarettes and cigars. Since his friendship with 
Rye Ireland, he neither smoked nor drank alcohol. He 
was slightly pale this evening, and it seemed as though 
Arrow communicated his lethargy to his now silent 
companion. 

As the door closed on the retreating servants the art- 
ist suddenly bent forward, and fresh vitality rushed in 
a flood of color to his face. 

“Now, Oliver, let me hear your plans,” he said in a 
voice so full of hidden meaning that it startled the 
young man. “You are going away from us, that, I 
understand, is settled. I object, your mother objects, 
but I gather this makes no difference to you. Your 
friends who advise you to take the step are powerful 


248 


MARY 


enough to provide funds and charm you away altogether 
from your old home. That being the case, we don’t 
count. As an outsider, I should like to know some 
details of the work.” 

The boy grew crimson as he met Arrow’s attack. 
The scathing words humbled him unpleasantly. He 
began to feel mean and unheroic. 

“I say, father, don’t put the matter quite like that ; 
it sounds so horrid.” 

Arrow drew a dish of fruit nearer and helped himself 
with deliberation. 

“But it is horrid,” he retorted ; “so why try and dis- 
guise the fact?” 

Oliver raised a glass of iced water to his lips. 

“How would you like,” he said, “to be told you must 
never paint again?” 

Arrow smiled away the question. 

“Let us keep to the one subject, my boy. I only ask 
to hear what class of work you expect to be given when 
these missionary friends send your marching orders to 
Rutherwyke.” 

Oliver had longed to confide all the fierce zeal burning 
in his heart, but his father’s tone was so discouraging, 
it effectually repelled the desire. His answer came in 
low, wounded accents. 

“If mother is annoyed,” he said, “please give me 
credit for some feelings too. I little expected she would 
shut herself up and refuse to see me. I don’t think it 
was playing fair to prejudice you against my plans 
before I had a chance of speaking for myself. Why, I 
was so taken aback by her attitude, I felt quite stupe- 
fied, and never even heard the dear old Gabriel bell, 
though I was listening for it when I came in a few min- 
utes before seven. I could not put mother’s face out of 


MARY THE MOTHER 249 

my mind or forget her cruel words. I never had such 
an unhappy home-coming. 5 ’ 

Arrow made no comment. The Gabriel bell to him 
was an incident of long ago, and Oliver’s grievances 
failed to touch him. 

“I used to think,” continued the complaining voice, 
“that mother was unselfish, and so she is in some ways — 
only look how she considers you! Yet my wishes are 
trampled on with open scorn, though, after all, they are 
good wishes and worthy of her sympathy. I can’t help 
suspecting she would have forgiven me any wickedness, 
while she bitterly resents my desire to live a better life.” 

His father nodded assent and lighted a cigar. 

“There I believe you are right. Both Josephine and 
myself find this excessive virtue uncommonly hard to 
swallow.” 

Oliver leaned with his elbows on the cloth and fixed 
his father with such eager eyes that for a moment 
Arrow forgot his own inclinations and remembered only 
the youthful personality at the table. It struck the 
boy that here lay a chance to win interest, to place 
before a prejudiced mind some of the romance and 
much of the nobility of purpose concealed in this so- 
called “excess of virtue.” 

“It is not as tame as perhaps you think,” he said, 
drawing a deep breath. “I may have to go to Labrador, 
and I know well what that means ; I should go with my 
eyes open. Rye’s father used to work among the scanty 
population along that desperately bleak coast in his 
younger days when he was strong enough. We should 
travel hundreds of miles over ice floes in sledges drawn 
by dog teams. He has often described the vast soli- 
tudes, and it is wonderful to catch the atmosphere from 
a man who is familiar with the ground. You can hardly 


250 


MARY 


realize what it means to the whalers and Eskimos 
when some one who cares enough to face the music ar- 
rives like a God-sent messenger in the midst of their 
desolation. It is a land of appalling silence or wild 
hurricane. The missionary takes medicine to suffering 
people who are cut off from the world, for he must re- 
member the body as well as the soul. Such a work means 
great personal privation and suffering. To English- 
men, reared in comfort, the cold endured amounts to 
martyrdom, but the reward comes with the joy you 
bring and the certain knowledge you are not alone. 
Don’t you feel, father, how great it is to have a life 
work, to follow a bent which helps instead of hinders 
your fellow-men? You love your daily toil, you could 
not live without the sweets of the career you have chosen 
for yourself. Well, my choice is as dear to me, though 
so utterly different. I want to reach those human souls, 
buried from civilization in that snow-bound, wind-swept 
country, and to bring them the light that can pierce 
even the darkness of despair. I dream sometimes I am 
there already, speaking to men who have waited, longed, 
prayed for the missionary to come, and in my dreams I 
realize how that terrible solitude can bind the soul to 
Nature and Nature’s God in a way hard to realize here, 
even though the flowers speak of His handiwork and the 
sunshine seems like His presence. The lilies to-day were 
marvelous, they made Rutherwyke seem like heaven. 
The garden has never been more beautiful. I suppose 
it is Miss Aquila’s doing.” 

Arrow’s face brightened as Oliver spoke of the gar- 
den and Mary. He ignored Labrador. 

“Ah ! you noticed the lilies. She has certainly exerted 
an influence, even though I have made such demands 
upon her time. The men work with enthusiasm since her 


MARY THE MOTHER 


251 


coming; they put heart into all they do — I suppose for 
love of her. You may think it is the power of physical 
beauty, but she has something greater which I cannot 
pretend to define. You will understand my meaning 
when you know her better. Your mother and I made 
her our friend from the first. Yet she is so unassuming 
that at time her humility embarrasses. Then again, 
when she asserts herself, one gets a glimpse of the 
strong character, entirely guided by its own impulses, 
which are always for the best. Talk to her about these 
wild plans of yours, and see what she has to say. I shall 
be curious to hear her views on the subject.” 

The suggestion appealed to Oliver. In that woman of 
the saintly face he would find a champion and one who 
might throw oil on the troubled waters of his parents’ 
opposition. The thought of Mary was the one bright 
spot now in this home-coming, rife with disappointment. 

Arrow moved to the open window to breathe the soft 
summer night air, full of fragrance. Oliver followed, 
no longer feeling the air oppressive. Certainly the gar- 
den called in mystic language and smote the silent 
chords of music which made poetry in the soil. 

“The scent,” he declared, “is more perfect than I ever 
remember. Have you some new flowers that give out 
this pungently sweet smell?” 

Arrow smiled. 

“Sometimes I fancy,” he replied, “that all the flowers 
are new. At any rate the plants have taken a fresh 
lease of life and give us prodigal measure. I suppose it 
is an exceptionally good year.” 

Oliver thought a moment, a puzzled expression on his 
brow. Then he murmured: 

“I suppose so.” 

He did not like to hark back to the old subject, which 


252 


MARY 


his father now appeared determined to ignore. Evi- 
dently he had not succeeded in raising Arrow’s interest 
or sympathy. The artist was far more absorbed in the 
garden (which next to his painting had become the 
hobby of his life) than any question of mission work in 
far-off Labrador. If any outside influence could bring 
comfort to Oliver, it was the panorama spread before 
him of those fair flowering acres and the memory of the 
lilies, standing like sentinels as Mary passed with soft 
step and strangely mystic presence, through the avenue 
of bloom. 

Just as the picture rose again before his mind a 
shadowy figure could be traced crossing the lawn. As 
it drew nearer the moon sailed from behind a cloud, 
sending a ray of light — like a torch from heaven — to 
guide the approaching form. This sudden bursting 
forth of the silver orb, this kindly action of the sky’s 
queen, spiritualized that long stretch of dewy grass, 
fully revealing its occupant. 

“It’s Mary,” he whispered, unconsciously speaking 
her Christian name. “She is coming to the house.” 

Arrow showed no surprise, though he caught in his 
son’s voice a note of keen excitement. 

“She is coming to see Josephine. Your mother sent 
her a note.” 

Oliver’s face fell. 

So Mary was allowed into the sanctum closed to him. 
Josephine could see a comparative stranger, when she 
shut herself away from her own kith and kin. 

“Mother will surely be better now,” he said. “I think 
I’ll just run up to her for a minute.” 

He turned as if to instantly carry out his words, but 
Arrow caught him roughly by the shoulder. 


MARY THE MOTHER 253 

“I gave her my promise that she should talk to Mary 
alone.” 

The eyes of father and son met in challenge. 

“Mother is not treating me fairly,” said the boy. 

The man’s heavy hand tightened its hold. 

“Perhaps she thinks you have hardly treated her with 
the fairness a mother deserves. As we make our bed, 
you know. You cannot figuratively knock her down, 
trample her under foot and then expect her to rise un- 
scathed. Women like Josephine are not made of very 
stern material; you ought to see that. She requires 
gentle handling. If any one can resign your mother to 
this blow, it is Mary.” 

The blue-clad figure passed from sight, and Oliver 
noticed a cloud once more shrouded the face of the 
moon. The garden looked suddenly dark and empty, 
robbed of its silver sheen. 

So Mary had entered the house. Instinctively the 
very realization of her presence beneath that roof 
calmed the resentment in Oliver’s breast. Inwardly he 
vowed he would manage to meet Mary again that same 
evening, to learn from her lips his mother’s attitude, the 
depth of her bitterness and the possibility of her seeing 
the matter in another light. 

“All right, father,” he said, “I promise I won’t in- 
trude upon mother until she cares to send for me. It 
isn’t like home while she stays upstairs, but I dare say 
she will be quite well to-morrow, and perhaps it is kinder 
to leave her alone.” 

He tried to catch the sound of a step in the hall. He 
fancied his father also listened. But Mary had not 
entered by the front door, Mrs. Penreath having ex- 
plained in her note she would leave the boudoir window 
open for the late caller. Mary could come up a side 


254 


MARY 


staircase, and Josephine’s bedroom was on the left of the 
passage. The writer had simply stated she was in 
trouble, giving no details. “I want your advice, I want 
your help,” she wrote, “and I know it will not be denied.” 

As Josephine despatched the message Constance 
Eastlake’s words rang persistently in her mind. They 
returned as clearly as if they had been spoken an hour 
since. To distract her thoughts from Oliver, she re- 
peated them mechanically: 

“When Mary’s attention is turned to you, it makes 
rather a startling impression and is an experience you 
will probably never encounter in your calm, even life. 
She gives the full benefit to those who are really 
troubled.” 

The old sensation of uncanny alarm faded from Jose- 
phine, eliminated by the overpowering shock of Oliver’s 
disclosure. Bitterly she recalled the glowing plans 
made with Constance, in pleasurable anticipation of 
future festivities at Rutherwyke. Now the mother felt, 
if only she could keep her boy in England, she would 
gladly forego all social triumphs. But the thought of 
his sudden departure and life in another continent, where 
he must wrestle with privation and work unceasingly, 
struck such terror to her soul. She already saw him 
laid in a foreign grave, sacrificed to unhealthy miasma 
or cruel cold, murdered possibly by savage black men 
or heathen Chinese. A whole gallery of horrors passed 
before her mental vision as she sat without food, unable 
to read or pray, in the throes of mental distress. 

Now and again to relieve the monotony of the passing 
moments she would pace up and down, struggling to 
keep back her tears and to crush the dread alarms tor- 
menting her harassed brain. 

All the time her heart cried aloud for her child, the 


MARY THE MOTHER 


255 


little boy she had rocked on her knee, the happy, laugh- 
ing lad from school — the Oliver of old. 

What had this day done for her? 

She looked in the glass, fiercely resenting the blow to 
her well-preserved beauty. Lines that were new and 
strange encircled her swollen eyelids. All the delicate 
coloring of a peach-like skin became marred by the 
intrusion of tears. She was older, more careworn ; she 
had grown ugly with the disfiguring hand of violent 
grief. 

She took up a powder puff and applied it to the un- 
sightly patches of vivid crimson. She threw aside a 
drenched handkerchief and scented a clean white square 
with violet perfume. Her trembling hands tried to 
arrange the disheveled hair, dressed earlier in the day 
with lavish skill, for she knew Mary would soon be at 
her door. She could almost have welcomed those super- 
stitious feelings which appeared so incomprehensible to 
Arrow, aware that any sensation would be preferable to 
the aching void at her heart and the vivid recollection of 
Oliver’s nerve-shattering revelation. 

Suddenly she remembered her fear, lest the silence of 
the Angelus should bring disaster to the house. She 
wondered if, after all, Mary’s influence in their midst 
was sinister and malign? She had certainly brought joy 
and consolation to the Eastlake household, but here — 
a shadow appeared which might hide the sunlight for- 
ever. What if in one short evening all the music in 
Josephine’s soul were to die forever as the Gabriel bell 
had died at Arrow’s word! 

Just as these new-born doubts rushed to her mind a 
gentle knocking at the door warned her Mary was 
already on the threshold. 

“Come in,” she said faintly. 


256 


MARY 


A shadowy form in a long cloak entered with noise- 
less steps. The cloak was exactly similar to the gar- 
ment the village women had called miraculous. It hung 
in graceful folds round this simple Madonna-like figure. 
In the dimly lighted room Josephine fancied her eyes 
deceived her and that this could not really be Mary, but 
some spirit proclaiming her advent, taking her features, 
paled by a mysterious flame from an unseen lamp. 

Josephine put out her hands. 

“Is it you?” she asked. “Is it you?” 

Her voice was broken. She bent her head and a low 
sob choked the final utterance. 

Mary drew nearer. 

“Yes,” she murmured softly. 

Only one word, but it fell like gold upon the troubled 
atmosphere. Still, it seemed to Josephine that a phan- 
tom voice had spoken. 

“Mary, I am so unhappy.” 

The long cloak fell to the ground and the woman in 
the plain blue gown came quickly to Josephine’s side. 
Then two tender arms pressed her to a heart which gave 
forth all the eternal elements of creation’s motherhood, 
the sympathy, glory and endless yearning, the height, 
depth, fulness of a pure, undying, majestic love. 

Josephine was the child held in maternal arms, Mary 
the mother taking upon herself the burden of that 
human grief and pain. 


Chapter xviii 


(THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 

T HE words came once more from the sufferer, but 
with less bitterness : 

“Mary, I am so unhappy.” 

As she spoke she felt the support of those motherly 
arms, which emphasized her own weakness and depres- 
sion, realizing she was in contact with strength and a 
strange, almost overpowering purity. She fancied in 
the faint light that Mary’s face was transparent as 
crystal. Josephine lost sight of its flesh and blood, in- 
stead it appeared as a dazzling image which took the 
reflection of humanity. 

“Tell me, tell me all,” said the soft voice, which wooed 
confidence. 

It was more a command than a request. It forced 
Josephine’s spirit to response. She could not have held 
back her words. Every pang, every withered hope, 
every fear rose to her lips as though summoned by an 
oracle. No half-truths were offered to Mary’s listening 
ear. Mrs. Penreath told of the glad day through which 
she waited for her son, of her sorrow when he tarried at 
the White Cottage, instead of hastening to her side, of 
their consequent conversation, just as it occurred word 
for word, by the old stone fountain. She described his 
indifference to her objections, his defiance when she sug- 
gested his father might prevent the proposed journey. 
257 


258 


MARY 


She did not pause to weigh her phrases or select argu- 
ments calculated to put her own case before Mary in the* 
best light. She gave in simple speech each scene of that 
human drama just as it developed at the time, without 
embellishments, without exaggeration, without conceal- 
ment. 

Until this moment Josephine looked upon herself as 
a woman of reserve, one to whom very close and intimate 
friendships were impossible. She took few to her heart, 
and, even before her own husband, frequently masked 
the real woman, offering a shadow more suitable to his 
fastidious taste. It was a new and inspiriting experi- 
ence to find herself suddenly drawn into wider channels, 
to expand beneath the warm light of understanding, to 
open her heart without the smallest dread of creating a 
wrong impression. She did not pause to analyze this 
mysterious sympathy, offered in comparative silence, for 
Mary’s words were so few, that if Josephine had sud- 
denly been called upon to repeat them, she would have 
declared : “Mary said nothing.” Only afterward, when 
alone with her own thoughts, she came to the startling 
conclusion that she had spoken to this new friend, to 
this employee, as she would have spoken in prayer, feel- 
ing rather than hearing the answer, knowing grace was 
given, comfort rendered, without any material proof. 

When at last Josephine concluded her story with a 
brief “that is all,” the three short words held a world 
of pain. 

“That is all” conveyed a broken spirit, a life laid low, 
a heart incapable of sharing her son’s high aims, a soul 
left childless because the child outraged his mother’s 
love, trampling under foot the divine spark of maternal 
devotion and the burning light of ambition. 

Mary heard and pitied. She kept her eyes on the 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 


259 


anguished face and her arms round the trembling figure, 
drawing Josephine to a couch by the window, that they 
might watch the moon’s triumphant escape from drift- 
ing clouds. Once more a great white radiance shone 
forth, ghostly, mysterious, pale as death, yet deathless 
throughout all ages, emerging from depths of darkness, 
from mountain ranges of majestic vapor. With grace- 
ful ascent the fair goddess of heathen superstition 
throwned herself high in the heavens and opened her 
beauty to the world. Rutherwyke lay bathed in fertiliz- 
ing dews, while Luna watched over the stars and smiled 
down upon the earth which she paled to glittering pearl. 

Josephine fancied the moon spoke of peace. There 
was infinite repose in the broad expanse of azure which 
held that mystic globe. She thought instinctively of 
the closing flowers, lulled to sleep under the purifying 
influence of a serene and spotless light. Mary’s low 
voice had some affinity with the elements, soft as summer 
breezes, soothing as rain on a spring morning, giving 
refreshment to growing roots and bursting buds, im- 
pelling the earth to offer up her hidden fund of treasure. 

“Poor heart of sorrow !” Mary whispered. “Did you 
not know on the very day you bore your child that a 
mother’s lot means sacrifice and pain? Women seek this 
sorrow, yearn and pray for it, they face their great 
duty with the fortitude of ignorance, and then weep 
when the day of reckoning comes. Did you imagine it 
would be joy — all joy, Josephine?” (The name was 
spoken so naturally Mrs. Penreath hardly knew it had 
passed Mary’s lips.) “You gave your son his being 
gladly, and then you forgot that in time he would drift 
away, leaving you perhaps to seek him sorrowing. Do 
you ever think what a Mother bore long ago, when she 
pondered in her heart the destiny of a divine Son? Do 


260 


MARY 


you ever try to probe the hidden years at Nazareth? 
Do you ever feel in sympathy the agony of soul endured 
by the Mother called upon to see her own flesh and blood 
lifted up, a scarred and bleeding sacrifice for cruel, 
merciless people? Does not the weight of your bitter- 
ness lose in comparison? Can you not hear her saying 
to you across the ages: ‘Was there ever sorrow like 
unto mine ?’ 55 

Josephine looked at Mary in sudden wide-eyed won- 
der, experiencing a dream-like sensation, as if indeed 
she were in a sacred, unreal presence. 

“Mary,” she whispered, “I know you would say that 
a prayer to the Virgin is an added pang. You made 
Arrow silence the Gabriel bell, you inspired his picture, 
you gave him that strange idea of portraying, not a 
halo-crowned Madonna, but merely Joseph’s wife, the 
mother of Joseph’s children, the humble guardian of a 
simple home, the weaker vessel, subject to man. But 
when you speak to me of her anguish, when I remember 
that she was chosen for a miraculous work by God Him- 
self, I could almost cry to her now to come to me with 
comfort and heal my wound. In the old days, when it 
was Arrow’s whim to have the Angelus rung night and 
morning, I often said aloud, ‘Mary, Mother of God, 
pray for us sinners, both now and at the hour of death.’ 
I should like to say it again to-night, just because she 
was a mother who suffered deeply and because God 
seems so very far away and I am afraid of Him.” 

Was it the light of the moon changing Mary’s face 
to such a startling pallor? The arms enfolding Jose- 
phine loosed their hold, while the tall figure in the blue 
robe stood up, towering over her, the muscles grow- 
ing taut and stiff with sudden sharp contraction. Mary 
had never looked so tall as now. Her eyes had never 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 


261 


blazed with such unearthly fire. Those eyes of great 
softness and beauty changed to lamps of flame, stars 
snatched from the firmament, catching the moon’s rays 
and warming them into beams of sunlight. She 
stretched out her arms, forming her body to the shape 
of a cross, while her fingers moved, as though to beckon 
wandering spirits nearer, to summon invisible aid* 

“So far away,” she said, ^only because your eyes are 
held, only because you cannot see. Afraid of infinite 
love, afraid of deathless truth. Pray still, poor faint- 
ing heart, pray without ceasing to the One you fear in 
your blindness, or pray to the Cross and its immortal 
burden, but spare the woman in the crowd below. She 
points you to the victim; she says from Calvary: ‘He 
alone can save.’ Did the tortured thief look down and 
pray to Mary? Did the disciples turn to her for guid- 
ance? Did the writers of her time think fit to record any 
chronicle of her life when the Son had risen from His 
tomb? Oh! unhappy Josephine, why hesitate when He 
can hear, when He can answer? Would you seek to 
break her rest and peace by adding to the prayers which 
beat upon her heart, tearing it with a thousand wounds ? 
Those who love her place hourly the weight of saintship 
on her soul, which sighs to lie alone, unworshiped at the 
Saviour’s feet, remembered only by Him. Yet men cry 
unceasingly: ‘Ever-Virgin, deliver us.’ ‘Blessed Mary, 
grant us peace. Break the sinners’ fetters, restore light 
to the blind, dispel our ills.’ And He who through meek- 
ness chose Her to be His Mother, knows that she sorrows 
greatly when the world would rob her of her low estate.” 

Josephine listened to the quick flow of words, spoken 
with passion, wrung from the depths of a soul op- 
pressed. She fancied for a moment the lesson of Arrow’s 
picture must have dwelt upon Mary’s brain, disturbing 


262 


MARY 


it to the point of madness. She forgot her own sorrow 
in contemplating the pale, tragic face which looked be- 
yond the walls of the faintly lighted room, kindling a 
sense of majesty and wonder. The shadows about 
Mary’s form suddenly appeared majestic. Surely they 
were materializing into a hazy, circling mist, caught by 
the rays of the moon and touched with silvery bright- 
ness. 

Josephine saw the change, marveling that light could 
play such strange tricks with the folds of the blue 
gown, sombered into a deeper shade than when day re- 
vealed the richness of its tone. She felt deeply grieved 
that any word of hers should hurt Mary’s sensitive 
spirit, especially after the sympathy she had shown and 
the tender touch of maternal love, which meant so much 
to the aching heart. 

“I will do as you say,” murmured Mrs. Penreath. “I 
will pray to the Virgin’s Son to give me back my son. 
I was going to ask if you would speak to Oliver? I am 
sure you cannot think it right for a boy of his age to 
defy both parents, leave his home and take up work for 
which he is utterly unfitted. I do not believe his desires 
are sincere. It is a case of having caught the infection 
from a friend who does not scruple to exercise a power- 
ful influence over Oliver’s mind. Nothing I can say will 
break down his determination, for he looks upon me as 
a desperately worldly woman, and through that same 
worldliness I lose ground. But to-day he told me you 
had the face of a saint. Mary, he would listen to you. 
Oh ! give him back to me, make him understand my suf- 
ferings, bring him to reason. Constance Eastlake said 
you seemed to come where there was trouble, to put 
things right. You restored her to happiness by almost 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 263 

a miracle. Won’t you — can’t you give me back my 
child ?” 

Josephine clasped her hands as if indeed she were 
praying to this Mary of earth, relying on her to use 
some powerful weapon that would dispel the sorrow of 
Oliyer’s home-coming. 

For a moment Miss Aquila made no reply, and a heavy 
silence fell. Josephine listened for a quick, reassuring 
retort, but gradually her rising hopes died down, flick- 
ering faintly in a breast which rebelled against the ex- 
tinguishing of those weak flames. 

Then Josephine spoke again impetuously. 

“Ah! I see you think Oliver is right. You approve 
of his choice ; he is noble in your eyes.” 

Mary shook her head. 

“I did not say so.” 

Josephine moved uneasily. Those circling lights 
were growing brighter round Mary’s form. Now they 
made a cloud of filmy texture between the two women. 
Josephine supposed that through long weeping the 
nerves of her eyes were affected. She closed them, see- 
ing still the same moving rays. 

“What will you do, Mary?” 

This time Josephine waited patiently for an answer, 
since she fancied that standing figure sought counsel of 
the far-reaching night influences. Possibly she drew 
inspiration from distant stars, shining like beacons of 
hope, or the soft moon rays mingling with the mysteri- 
ous stillness in which Mary’s ears alone might catch a 
small, soft voice. 

Presently Mary spoke. 

“Your desire to keep your son is reasonable enough. 
I do not blame you nor do I blame him, but the root of 
the trouble is very clear to me, you simply want to un- 


264 . 


MARY 


derstand each other better. Perhaps when he talks the 
subject over with me, I may be able to throw quite a 
fresh light upon his point of view, one he has never seen 
before, a light that will make him obedient to your 
wishes and ashamed of the very desires which now elate 
his soul with pride.” 

A gasp of joy escaped Josephine. 

“Mary,” she cried, “if you can do this, I swear by a 
mother’s love I shall never forget your goodness. I will 
do anything in the world to prove my gratitude. Your 
name shall be in my prayers till the day of my death, and 
if ever you want a f riend, I will be more than that, I will 
be a mother — a sister, I will count you with my nearest 
and dearest on earth.” 

With a pang she remembered how Constance East- 
lake’s brilliant offers had all been rejected by this woman 
who would accept neither home nor money, preferring to 
work at Rutherwyke in the humble sphere of garden 
toil. 

Mary drew nearer. She took Josephine’s hands, and 
her touch had a soothing magnetism, a healing power. 

“Try to be patient, try to believe in the good, ask 
for a quiet mind, seek consolation outside yourself,” 
whispered the musical voice. “You have worn away 
your strength with fretting and tears, while to-morrow 
all may be well.” 

Josephine drew the speaker down and kissed her. 

“Mary,” she said, “I trust in you. For that reason I 
shall dry my tears and remember the service you did 
poor Constance, who hid from all outsiders the bitter- 
ness of her heart. I said to my husband that you could 
help us now, and while you are talking to Oliver, I shall 
be praying. Worldly woman that I am, from this hour 
my life for him shall be one perpetual prayer. I thought 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 


265 


to be a mother was a splendid joy, but you have made me 
realize a mother’s cup is full of pain, and those who 
suffer pray more naturally than those who merely joy. 
Good-night, Mary. God bless you. To-morrow you 
will keep your promise and see Oliver.” 

Mary returned the kiss so gently that the touch of 
her lips was like a swift passing of gentle wind over the 
face of still waters. About her garments the fragrant 
scent of flowers clung, so pronounced that Josephine 
looked to see if she wore roses or lilies in her gown. The 
light was clear enough to reveal an unadorned robe, so 
Josephine concluded the exquisite odor came instead 
from a vase on a table near at hand. She watched the 
figure cross the room, gliding away like a silent spirit. 
Mary bent to raise her cloak, which still lay on the 
ground, and as she drew it round her the long folds 
mingled with the shadows. 

“You can go out the same way, by the boudoir win- 
dow,” said Josephine. “It has been left open on pur- 
pose.” 

A murmured assent and the door closed. Once more 
Josephine was alone. She rose quickly, and turning up 
all the lights, rubbed her eyes as if she had been asleep. 
The past appeared so vision-like, she wanted to reassure 
herself the room was a reality. She touched the carved 
bedposts and once more gazed at herself in the mirror, 
which only a short time ago revealed such a careworn, 
haggard face. Now Josephine saw a new woman, bright 
with hope. All the unsightly crimson had faded from 
her eyes and she could look without repugnance at her 
image. Drawing a deep breath, she reared her head and 
squared her shoulders as if the effort helped to summon 
fresh control. Instinctively her heart lightened with a 
new sense of courage. She was no longer crushed by the 


266 


MARY 


burden of her grief. She realized she could at last stand 
up to meet even a fresh blow without trembling. Her 
whole nature revived; she felt younger, stronger, more 
sure of her ground. 

Arrow should see the change, she inwardly resolved. 
Now she would greet him with a smile on her lips. 
Men, of course, detested doleful women. Before dinner 
her fierce agitation had, she knew, preyed on the artist’s 
peculiar temperament, giving him a kind of mental in- 
digestion. Arrow unconsciously relied upon Josephine 
for smiles and sympathy. If he confided woes or failures 
she must listen and offer consolation. If he had tri- 
umphs to relate she must thrill with ecstasy, whatever 
sorrow dimmed her brain. To feel their positions re- 
versed was a disturbing experience her husband inwardly 
resented. It sorely tried his temper, keeping him from 
her room in nervous dread of a coming storm. To-night 
he threw the odium of Josephine’s distress entirely upon 
Oliver. For this reason his son appeared obnoxious in 
his eyes, and he avoided his society accordingly, fearful 
lest the subject of Labrador might once again be pre- 
sented to him, an unsavory dish offending his fastidious 
nostrils. 

“People who work,” said the R.A. to himself, “should 
certainly not have children. It is doubtful if even they 
ought to marry.” 

Oliver, left alone, decided to wait until Mary should 
reappear from his mother’s room. It seemed to him a 
long interview, and he felt half inclined to envy the 
unscrupulous nature of an eavesdropper as he hovered 
far off, listening for the opening of Josephine’s door 
and her visitor’s departure. 

Of course they were talking of him. The angry 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 26? 

parent would hold up his mission to scorn before this 
stranger just as she had condemned it to Arrow. 

But Mary, with those sacred eyes which held in their 
depths the beauty of a sinless soul, the Mary of the lilies, 
would surely understand him in a way his mother failed 
to do. Possibly she might soften Josephine and bring 
her to a better mind. Perhaps even to-night he would 
be called to his mother’s side and blessed with words of 
repentance. “Son, forgive my worldly displeasure. 
Son, you must go about the Father’s business.” 

He heard these tidings ringing in his brain, picturing 
a scene in which Josephine’s pride lay humbled in the 
dust, while he magnanimously pardoned her past resent- 
ment, once more telling her of the great schemes that 
were to glorify his future. 

Yes, Mary was just the woman to bring such a climax 
to pass — to turn a miserable evening of failure into glad 
forgiveness and mutual understanding between mother 
and son. 

He heard Josephine’s door open ; Mary was nearing 
the side staircase which led to the boudoir. He moved 
away and ran nimbly down, concealing himself in the 
dainty little room, near the long French window. 

As Mary entered he stepped boldly forward with a 
welcoming smile. The shaded electric light showed him 
tall and manly, well set up, undeniably good-looking in 
his faultless evening dress, a son of whom any woman 
might be proud. 

“Forgive me for waylaying you like this,” he said, 
“but if you can spare a moment, I should be so very 
glad to hear if you have succeeded in pacifying my 
mother. Of course she has confided her trouble to you. 
I am the victim of her displeasure. Bad luck, isn’t it?” 

The last words were uttered with an attempt to laugh 


268 


MARY 


off an awkward situation. He closed the boudoir door, 
to hush the sound of voices, and his effort to conceal in- 
ward anxiety was so transparent that Mary smiled with 
the leniency of an elder person toward a child. 

“It has done your mother good talking of her trouble 
to some one outside the family. Please forgive me for 
hearing your secret; I could not refuse to go to Mrs. 
Penreath. I dare say you felt a little hurt that a stran- 
ger was admitted to her confidence.” 

How well Mary read his thoughts. Her pleasant tone 
made Oliver feel he could forgive her anything, though 
he was not quite so sure he could forgive Josephine. 

“My mother is very fussy,” he declared, “and I am 
only too glad that you were there to let her talk and get 
the matter off her mind. Possibly by to-morrow she will 
be quite sensible again. I ought perhaps to have kept 
my plans to myself for a few days, but I pictured her 
sending off an impossible quantity of invitations to 
please a man whose only wish is to relinquish society and 
lead an utterly different kind of life.” 

He was trying to speak lightly, partly f rom nervous- 
ness, but chiefly because he was too shy to reveal all at 
once his eager expectations. He feared they might ap- 
pear presumptuous in Mary’s eyes coming from one so 
young, and he had all youth’s horror of ridicule. 

She watched him with her gentle gaze, reading deeply 
into his mind. As he waited for her to speak, she moved 
a little nearer, and her shadow fell across his own, the 
one merging in the other just where the meon’s rays 
trembled, making a path of light for Mary. 

“Your mother kept nothing back,” said the soft voice 
without hesitation in a tone that made Oliver feel she 
had known him for years. “Mrs. Penreath told me all 
her hopes and fears. She described her joyful longing 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 


269 


for your return to-day and the agony of mind she suf- 
fered when you spoke of these new arrangements with 
Mr. Ireland. She asks me to believe that you intend 
now, at so early an age, to abandon your studies, give 
up your home, spurn the openly expressed desires of 
father and mother and follow a career of toil and trial 
in a distant country. She is sure — quite sure that this 
is the inexorable fate she must accept at your hands. 
She is prepared to break her heart over the blow. So, 
you see, women get strange fancies into their heads. Do 
tell me what you said to give her this impression?” 

Mary turned large, inquiring eyes upon him, which 
unconsciously sent the blood rushing to his temples in a 
flood of shame. Evidently she suspected Josephine had 
arrived at a wrong conclusion and was waiting for 
Oliver to confirm the suspicion. For a moment he felt 
tongue-tied, then he was dimly conscious those same 
compelling eyes forced him to reply. With an effort he 
determined to make the case clear. 

“My mother,” he stammered, angry at his own con- 
fusion, “was quite right in what she said. I have work 
to do far afield, God’s work, and if you are the good 
woman I take you to be, I fancy you will approve the 
choice I have made. You see, both my parents live very 
much for this world, and until I met Rye Ireland I never 
realized I had a vocation. Now I know the call has 
come, bidding me follow in the Master’s steps, bidding 
me leave home and country to minister to souls in prison. 
Not the prison of bolts and bars, but a penal servitude 
of ice-bound desolation, where silence reigns and no 
voice speaks of peace, a land in which men think that 
possibly God Himself has forgotten their existence.” 

Mary listened sympathetically. She saw Oliver’s face 
glow, watched him clench his fingers and catch a deep 


270 


MARY 


breath at the conclusion of the hurried speech, as if to 
inhale power, and touch already, in elated thought, the 
laurels of a martyr’s crown. It all seemed very pitiful 
to the one who watched with vivid comprehension and a 
heart of understanding. 

“The call,” said Mary, “is generally sent to those who 
are ready, if it comes from heaven direct. I think yours 
came to you through a human voice, a human sugges- 
tion, mistaken for a higher and more perfect demand. 
You would follow, I understand, in the Master’s foot- 
steps. This is your whole desire, is it not?” 

Oliver flushed hotly beneath the words. They filled 
him with some vague misgiving he could not define. 

“Yes,” he replied, “most certainly. What do you 
mean by mistaking the call ?” 

Mary stirred slightly, and the movement caused her 
cloak to brush against his sleeve. The sudden contact 
warmed him hke rays of fire when the chill of autumn’s 
death is on the earth. It stirred his blood strangely, 
sending a tingling sensation through every vein. 
Quickly he turned to her, startled by the new wonder of 
these unexpected sensations. Unconsciously he gripped 
the cloak, holding its blue folds in his clenched fist as a 
drowning man might catch a rope thrown to him in the 
hour of raging tempest. It was no ordinary garment 
he held, but a part of Mary’s personality, the visible 
sign of a substance creeping through the channels of his 
flesh to the startled fiber of the brain. It was a third 
presence standing between them weighed with some 
mighty influence. The warm fabric thrilled to his touch 
like a thing alive, and yet he knew it was but the hem of 
the garment Mary wore to protect her from the mists of 
night. 

He pressed his question eagerly once again, and now 


THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 271 


his voice shook, while his eyes fell beneath her piercing 
glance. As she opened her lips to speak Oliver dared 
not look into a face so pure, radiant and inspired, yet 
he dreaded her next remark and prevented her words 
with a quick interruption. 

“You say I have mistaken the call. I do not under- 
stand you at all — in fact, I am quite at sea and should 
be glad of an explanation. I dare say I have much to 
learn, and women I know can help men — women like you. 
Tell me what you mean. I only want to listen and be 
guided by your wisdom.” 

He asked himself inwardly: “How did he know she 
was wise? Were they not strangers still, together for 
the first time alone?” Yet to Oliver the wisdom of all 
the ages shone in that beautiful face. The wisdom of 
goodness, the knowledge of right, the temple of a great 
gift given to the daughters of the world — instinct. 

Mary did not draw her cloak away, though she saw 
him press it to his heart, which beat fiercely for the ex- 
planation only her lips could give. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 

i i "HY mistaking the call,” replied Mary, “I meant 
-U that Mr. Ireland said, ‘Come,’ and not the 
Master.” 

It was an astounding statement to fall so calmly from 
her lips. It robbed Oliver of breath and made him fear 
for her as for one who has blasphemed. 

“How can you know?” he asked, and despite his ad- 
miration, despite the power of her mysterious influence, 
he was offended. 

“To follow in the footsteps of the Man of Sorrows,” 
murmured Mary gently, “you must think of His life.” 

Oliver raised his head proudly. 

“Exactly. It is of that I am always thinking — the 
life of self-abnegation, serving others, going from place 
to place preaching to the poor and ignorant, succoring 
them in sickness, comforting them in sorrow and drink- 
ing the cup of sacrifice because it is the Father’s will.” 

“The life which commenced at thirty,” broke in Mary 
with a clear ring in her voice like the chiming of the 
Gabriel bell ; “the life which needed all those long years 
of quiet, thoughtful preparation, when the King of 
kings remained in subjecMon to His parents, under their 
rule, working at a poor man’s trade. In silent obedience 
He waited until the time should be accomplished to go 
forth on His ministry. Have you ever thought of His 
272 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


273 


long restraint, His example of humility? Could the 
Mother who loved Him have borne the agony of the Pas- 
sion but for those years given so willingly first to her 
and to the home? She had that store of happiness to 
draw upon when the iron entered her soul. She was 
saved by those years, those blessed years of which the 
world knows nothing.” 

Oliver looked at Mary with startled eyes. 

“You speak as if you knew,” he said, and a cold chill 
crept through his veins. 

“I know,” she answered, “that in these days of rush 
and hurry people often mistake zeal for holiness and 
crowd out the life of worship. They do not sufficiently 
prepare for any great work. They utterly ignore this 
side of their Lord’s earthly sojourn, and therefore lose 
sight of its example. He, the Almighty, thought it 
necessary to accept humble service until He ‘began to 
be about thirty years of age.’ What patient self-sup- 
pression, what a lifetime of prayer to train the heart 
for those few full years of divine labor! Do you not 
think the devils could have been subject to Him sooner? 
But there was a time to learn and a time to teach.” 
(Mary spoke in a tone of authority.) “The Master 
bids you know Him better and follow His example of 
restraint.” (Her words came with the power of a direct 
message.) “You are but eighteen and you would at- 
tempt the task of experienced men, attempt it only to 
fail. There are mission fields at your very door, yet you 
wilfully blind yourself because you do not wish to see. 
You want a romance, you want a story, you are carried 
off your feet by words that stir the imagination and 
fill your heart with pride. There is vainglory in your 
longing. Your thirst for adventure is greater than 
your thirst for the souls of men. Look into your heart# 


MARY 


2Y4 

Did you not know yourself to-day, when your mother’s 
tears fell? Did you still think you had a hero’s nature? 
Did you still believe you were acting in accordance with 
your Master’s will? What is right for one is wrong for 
another. The work you desire is right for strong, ex- 
perienced men ; it is right for Rye Ireland. I have heard 
much of his father, and unless the son were well fitted 
for such a vocation, he would never let him become a 
missionary^ It is wrong for you, because you have an- 
other place to fill. You will be shown the way, you will 
be given the power of renunciation if you ask for guid- 
ance and humble yourself to accept the harder task. 
When you go back to your studies, try instead to in- 
fluence those around you by quiet example. Oh! there 
will be so much to do, you will wonder you found time to 
think of leaving England. Here at Rutherwyke I could 
name a dozen cases that might employ your time. You 
could help me ” 

She broke off, for his face, which had expressed vari- 
ous stages of surprise, annoyance, wonder and resent- 
ment, softened suddenly. 

“I — I could help you !” 

The words held some balm to soothe his troubled mind, 
for as Mary laid bare before him all the weak points 
of his boasted energy he realized that she spoke truly. 
He saw his own soul in a fresh and strangely unflatter- 
ing light. The word “vainglory” pierced him like a 
sword as it fell from her lips. He stood condemned, dis- 
covered by an eye searching beneath the surface. She 
had told him to look into his heart, and he obeyed with 
fear and trembling, knowing well he could not be called 
a strong man, hampered by youth’s inexperience. When 
she spoke of the thirty years’ preparation, those silent 
years at Nazareth branded Oliver as a presumptuous. 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


275 


hot-headed child of impulse. The restraint of that most 
marvelous figure in history appeared in the strong light 
of example. Mary’s words painted the Man-God in all 
His wondrous humility and abnegation, calling upon 
Oliver to accept the lesson of a hidden life. How could 
such arguments be answered, spoken by Mary of the 
lilies, the woman with a saint’s face and eyes of holy 
fire ? 

“Yes,” she retorted as Oliver echoed her words, 
“even at Rutherwyke there are souls in prison.” 

The young man bowed his head. 

“You don’t know what you ask me to give up. You 
can’t realize what it means to me to put all my dreams 
behind and relinquish my ambitions.” 

Mary sighed, and the gentle stir of her body seemed 
to Oliver an unspoken tribute of sympathy for the 
struggle he endured and the resignation she called upon 
him to make. 

“Only dreams,” she whispered, “there you are right. 
Dreams of work to be handled by those of maturer years, 
dreams you may yet fulfil when your heart is ready. Go 
when your mother’s blessing can follow you, go when 
you are prepared. You were indeed walking in your 
sleep ; only now you are awake and can see clearly.” 

She moved nearer the window. He could not bear 
for her to leave, though he considered she had treated 
him with cruel candor. Also he wondered she did not 
ask for his decision, noting she took for granted he 
would follow her advice, given with such a wealth of 
spontaneous conviction. 

“Stay,” he said quickly, “talk to me, lecture me, say 
anything you like — only don’t go. I have a queer feel- 
ing that you are the living embodiment of truth, and 
however bitter the truth may prove, it must fall from 


276 


MARY 


your lips as naturally as the rain falls from heaven. I 
see I am a very poor creature in your eyes, and you 
make me believe, against my own will, that your judg- 
ment is right. No one else could have torn away the 
veil. Mother tried and failed disastrously. I cannot 
tell you the anger she roused in my heart. Rye Ireland 
shall be warned he was mistaken in me. I w T ill write and 
repeat your words. I will say my Lady of the Lilies (I 
must call you that) finds me unworthy of all our grand 
ambitions. It is a difficult confession to make ; it is hard 
to realize I was governed and led by a spirit of romance, 
a wretched seeking after adventure for which my par- 
ents were to suffer. Poor mother, how completely she 
broke down to-night ! My father, too, he was hard as a 
rock, and, oh! so sarcastic. If you could only have 
heard him at dinner! Perhaps you know how he can 
wither up a fellow when he likes.” 

Oliver successfully barred the exit with his figure. 
He had grown so excited he would have talked long into 
the night had Mary listened. But it was evident she 
intended ending the interview, for she raised her hand 
to wave him aside. 

“Please let me go,” she begged with her sweet smile. 
“To-morrow we shall meet again, and then we can join 
hands in some work nearer home. I could not help say- 
ing what I felt, and it is very good of you not to be 
angry at my plain speaking. I hope we are still 
friends.” 

He caught both her wrists violently and stammered 
the word “friends” in a voice shaking with emotion. 

What a young impressionable eighteen-year-old 
heart ! Mary could almost have wept at the tragedy of 
youth. A man’s form and a child’s nature thrust upon 
a crafty world to battle with old souls, ready to prey on 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


m 


the credulous and weak. All her instincts of motherly 
protection rose to the surface, a great tender flood of 
pure understanding. Yet she drew away firmly, know- 
ing it was better now that Oliver should be alone. 

“Good-night,” she said, stepping out into the moon- 
light. 

He followed without hesitation. 

“I am coming to see you home. I always take a stroll 
after dinner.” 

Mary held up a protesting hand. 

“I prefer to walk by myself ; I would rather be alone. 
Please don’t think me unkind.” 

She gave no explanation for this preference, made no 
excuse for desiring solitude, and Oliver felt compelled 
to respect her wish, though his face denoted keen disap- 
pointment. 

“Of course if you prefer ” 

The sentence died unfinished on his lips, in a lingering 
hope Mary might relent, and even as he hesitated, the 
cloaked form vanished among the shadows and was seen 
no more. 

“Which way had she gone?” 

He asked himself the question in sudden perplexity, 
looking from left to right, then turning back to the 
house, entered with head bent and hands clenched. He 
made no effort to analyze his feelings, but mounted the 
stairs to his room and went straight to a writing-table. 
Taking pen and paper, he hastily addressed an envelope 
to Rye Ireland. 

This done, he paused until his thoughts began to 
flow, when once again he took up his pen and wrote with 
speed : 


278 


MARY 


“My Dear Brother” — for some time it had pleased 
them to use this term, though now the word rang a little 
false and jarred on Oliver’s nerves — “I promised to 
write at once, giving you the full details of my home- 
coming. Here I am, back at Rutherwyke, and since we 
parted, only this morning, there is much to tell. First 
and foremost, I have made a friend. You will say in 
such a short time it is impossible to call a new acquaint- 
ance ‘friend,’ but I assure you I have met with no ordi- 
nary soul. I do not hesitate to say she is a living, 
breathing saint, a woman with the face of a Madonna, 
eyes that are absolutely true and a voice of real music — 
not the music which ripples and laughs, but the thrilling 
tones of some grand cathedral choir or a heavenly in- 
strument reaching to earth for the good of mankind. 
I saw her first on my arrival, just where the lilies grow. 
She looked so absolutely spiritual that I half believed 
she was an angel. To-night we met again and spoke 
of many things. She had been trying to comfort my 
mother, who was crying as if her heart would break 
because I had told her I must answer the call to foreign 
lands which I thought I had received from heaven. But 
this stranger, this Madonna-like Mary, showed me my- 
self. She spoke of the years of preparation at Naza- 
reth, when our Lord remained in subjection to His 
parents, and pointed me to Him as an example, saying 
it was my distinct duty to stay here in obedience to my 
parents’ wishes. Her words burned into my heart like 
fire ; you cannot imagine the effect they had upon me. I 
turned hot and cold ; I writhed beneath their candor, and 
knowing they were the wounds of a friend, I almost wel- 
comed the pain. I could have cried aloud with anguish, 
but my brain forced me to listen. Her spirit was a 
mighty power, overwhelming me, crushing my egoism. 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


279 

changing me into a new being, a being who despised the 
old, untried self. If I were to go away with you now on 
this mission, Rye, her eyes would follow me with their 
big reproach, her tongue would cry: ‘Where is your 
mother’s blessing? What have you done with her tears ?’ 
This woman who influences me so mightily, this stran- 
ger, declares emphatically my work would fail. She 
holds persistently to the fact that lack of experience is 
an obstacle, that I am offering weakness where strength 
is required, youth and ignorance in place of matured 
service. She bids me wait ; she holds me back. I am as 
a child in her hands. I cannot pretend to argue when 
her eyes are upon me. If only you could see and hear 
her, you would understand. I swear it is not merely the 
beauty of her face which moves me, though she is the 
grandest woman on God’s earth. In a sacred picture at 
which my father is now working he hopes to immortalize 
her as the Virgin Mary. While I write I see in imagi- 
nation every radiant feature, the tone of her skin so 
rare and pure, the exquisite softness of the hair upon 
her brow. But the hour is late, and all this may only 
weary you. Were I to write all night, I could not ex- 
press one-half of her glorious womanhood. She bears a 
name both sacred and sweet; she is called ‘Mary.’ So, 
my dear brother, you will see I have taken her words to 
heart; I have decided to act upon them. At present I 
must stay at Rutherwyke, and she will lead me to a 
better understanding of the truths I had presumptu- 
ously considered myself fitted to teach. I only stay to 
learn, hoping for improvement. I shall pray for you 
and your grand schemes ; the mission will be ever in my 
mind. We can still remain brothers, can we not? How 
I shall think of you, far away, leading the life I so de- 
sired, doing the work we talked of together, sometimes 


280 


MARY 


remembering, perhaps, the one who drew back. In the 
future you may possibly meet this woman who has 
altered my fate, and knowing her, you will forgive all 
and understand all.” 

Here he thanked his friend for much kindness re- 
ceived, and with many expressions of warm regard, 
signed the letter: 

“Your devoted comrade, 

“Oliver Penreath.” 

Just as his trembling hand sealed the missive beneath 
a mass of burning wax the door opened softly and Jose- 
phine stole in. She wore a loose silk dressing-gown of 
pale coloring, and the delicate lace about her throat 
gave her face a strangely fragile appearance. She came 
quickly forward, putting her arms about her boy. 

“I could not sleep without kissing you,” she whis- 
pered in a broken voice. 

She did not know he had seen Mary nor did she intend 
to mention the painful subject risen barrier-like between 
them. 

He drew her head down, pressing the quivering lips 
to his own with a fervor that filled her with surprise. 

“Mother,” he whispered, “can you forgive me?” 

She looked at Oliver with startled eyes, her slight 
frame trembling violently. Surely his words held con- 
trition and the softened tone suggested a possible com- 
promise. 

“You know, dear,” he added, “we cannot always see 
as we are seen, and I was very blind to-day. I fear I 
hurt you terribly; I think I hurt father too. Then 
Mary came. I watched for her in the boudoir and we 
spoke of this mission. Don’t ask me to repeat what she 
said, mother. I had hoped just now to write some of it 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


281 


to Rye Ireland, but my pen refused, and I made a hide- 
ous failure of the attempt. I could only tell him my 
plans were changed and that, after all, he must go away 
alone. I mentioned I had made a friend and that her 
words were responsible for my decision.” 

A cry of joy escaped Josephine, the cry of a soul 
released from torment. The sound smote Oliver’s ears 
like a blow, revealing to him the depth of suffering he 
had inflicted. 

Closer and closer he held her, whispering penitently : 

“Mother — little mother, I am sorry, so sorry.” 

Josephine, feeling the tender embrace, hearing the 
soft words, felt her dead heart glow with sudden resur- 
rection. 

Once more Oliver was all her own. The past seemed 
like an evil dream in this hour of renewed love and un- 
derstanding. Softly she wept on his shoulder, tears of 
voiceless relief. 

At last she spoke, calmed by the soothing touch of 
his hand and the pressure of his cheek against her own. 

“We will try to live together the life you had planned 
for yourself abroad, Oliver. We will teach each other 
the work of service. It will be easy if we are willing to 
learn, and perhaps Mary will help us.” 

She realized dimly that Mary was a tower of strength, 
and turned to this strong fortress, fearful lest the news 
should prove too good to last. 

“Yes, Mary will help us,” he echoed, and the pain 
vanished from his voice, while a strangely tender note 
sounded the warning of sentiments so deep and strong 
that Josephine wondered at their passionate intensity. 

“I may tell Arrow?” she whispered. “He too will be 
glad.” 

“Oh! yes, if you think father cares.” 


282 


MARY 


“I know he cares. You must not always be guided by 
his outward appearance or manner. He has very deep 
affections, but sometimes I think he does not like to 
show them.” 

Oliver did not reply. 

“I have noticed,” continued Josephine, “that in many 
ways he has been kinder and more considerate since he 
began this new picture. He has given generously to 
charities and seems upset if any one is spoken ill of. 
As usual, of course, he is engrossed in his work, but we 
must expect that. Every one has to pay for their 
laurels, and Arrow’s are bought by long days of labor 
and the concentration demanded by art.” 

Oliver was thinking of those hours his father spent 
in the studio with Mary. How splendid to study all 
that was wonderful and fair in that speaking face, to 
gaze enraptured at its every line in the solitude of a 
silent room. For the first time he envied Arrow his art, 
and a burning desire possessed him to see the painting 
of Mary. 

He replied vaguely to his mother’s words. Probably 
the creating of sacred subjects inspired holy thoughts 
and the atmosphere in which his father worked would be 
conducive to charitable deeds. 

He felt glad when Josephine gave him her final kiss 
and left with a happy smile which brought back her 
girlish charm. 

Impatiently he waited until her footsteps died away, 
then stamping his letter, went softly into the corridor, 
turning down a staircase leading to Arrow’s studio. As 
he neared the door he could see a light in the room. All 
his recent fear of his father faded before a deep anxiety 
to see the pictured Mary. He entered without knocking 
and walked straight to the large canvas. 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


283 


Arrow was seated in a chair not far from the models’ 
platform, apparently engrossed in the contemplation of 
his work. Oliver said nothing, paid no heed to the silent 
figure, but simply stood transfixed, gazing at the Ma- 
donna’s face. He fancied it must actually be Mary 
Aquila returned from wandering in the garden, to take 
up her abode in that peaceful studio. Noting his son’s 
absorption, Arrow felt relieved, for he had no wish to 
return to unpleasant subjects and gladly observed how 
deeply the painting appeared to impress and move his 
youthful critic. 

“You like it?” queried the artist, trying to conceal 
a note of excitement in his voice. “I think it lives, I 
believe it speaks, and that is half the battle. She is here, 
is she not, Oliver ? If we never saw her again, she would 
be with us always.” 

The words had a strange effect upon the younger 
man. Suddenly his father was nearer to him than ever 
in the past; their thoughts merged in one harmonious 
flow of eager admiration. 

“You have never done so well,” said the boy simply, 
“but then you have never had such a subject, father. 
You must know that by now. This is more than a pic- 
ture, it is Mary whispering to the soul — Mary beautiful, 
majestic, simple, entreating. The eyes move, the lips 
plead, the face is alive. You have grasped her spirit, 
you have caught all the fine feeling, the noble impulses! 
She has evidently held nothing back which could help 
and inspire, she has given her true self to the work. 
What an education to be near such a woman! Oh! I 
envy you, father. I ought not to wonder at your tri- 
umph. But it takes my breath away to see such splendid 
success and to share in it here with you. I am proud, 


284 . 


MARY 


terribly proud and glad. I never knew you were so 
great.” 

He turned impetuously to grasp his father’s hand. 
The artist smiled. Oliver’s words were absolutely genu- 
ine and their enthusiasm could not fail to please. 

“I am glad you are satisfied,” said Arrow, “but, as 
you observe, I was helped. We have an extraordinary 
woman at Rutherwyke, and it seems you have guessed 
this already, since you saw her at the cottage this after- 
noon. We must make the most of her while she is with 
us ; it may not be for long.” 

The boy started. 

“You — you don’t really think she will go?" ques- 
tioned Oliver in a voice of obvious alarm. “She seemed 
contented enough ; the cottage looked so sweet and home- 
like. Surely she cannot want to leave it yet?” 

To the older man the boy was childishly transparent 
as he stammered out these words, his color deepening as 
he spoke. But his father gave him cold comfort. 

“I am quite sure she will leave us. I have known it 
for some time.” 

The answer came without a moment’s hesitation, fall- 
ing like lead on Oliver’s heart. 

“Why, father, why? Is she not happy here?” 

Already he was inwardly forming plans which might 
induce Miss Aquila to remain. Perhaps it was a matter 
of money, and he could persuade his parents. to offer her 
a more tempting salary, possibly she had some grievance 
that could easily be rectified. Instinctively he thought 
of the garden’s life and the triumph of the lilies. She 
must have used magic to induce. so brave a show of blos- 
som, the magic of work well done, of care, talent, dis- 
cretion. 


THIRTY SILENT YEARS 


285 


“I do not think it is a matter of happiness,” replied 
Arrow after a pause. 

“Then what other reason could there be? Try and 
think, father. You must have some idea, you who see 
her so often.” 

“I cannot pretend to say. It is a mystery, my boy. 
Though she looks quite calm and peaceful, at heart she 
must be restless. She is always moving from place to 
place. I dare not hope she will remain long with us.” 

Arrow sighed and Oliver caught a world of sadness 
in the sound. 

“Even if she goes, we could see her still,” persisted the 
anxious voice. “There are some people one must never 
lose sight of, don’t you agree with me, father? Surely 
she will always remember us, because of you and this 
great work. All the world will be talking of your pic- 
ture, then perhaps the public may discover Mary Aquila, 
and her name will be associated with Rutherwyke until 
we are dead and forgotten.” 

It was a glad fancy, thrilling Oliver with hope for the 
future. 

Arrow listened without comment ; he had his own ideas 
about Mary, but was willing to draw his son into fur- 
ther conversation. They talked of her beauty as she 
stood pictured before them in the blue gown ; they talked 
of the painting’s merits and its lesson to men, and the 
subject proved so congenial, it was not until Oliver 
found himself once again alone in his room that he re- 
membered he had never told Arrow his change of plans. 

“He will hear it from mother,” said the now tired 
traveler as he sought his old familiar bed, which looked 
so home-like and inviting after the long, disquieting 
day. 

As Oliver closed his eyes he thought of his father’s 


286 


MARY 


work with quite a new pride, strong, deep, grateful. He 
thought, too, of Mary and her influence on his life, 
wondering what Rye Ireland would say when he received 
the letter. Then came a dreamy sensation of not caring 
very deeply. Mary, Arrow and the so-called brother 
faded before sleep’s conquering claim, and Oliver’s eyes 
closed. 

He had no dreams that night, but when he woke the 
first word he uttered in sweet contemplation was the 
name “Mary.” 


CHAPTER XX 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 

M RS. CRAY was returning from her son’s grave, 
where she kept a small tin cross filled with cot- 
tage flowers. As she walked back alone from the ceme- 
tery, down the main street of Abbotts Rrooke, Mrs. 
Jones joined her with a welcoming smile. 

“How well you are looking !” said the widow, taking 
the hand stretched out to her in friendly greeting. 

The wrinkled face hardly suggested rude health, but 
the woman’s eyes were less heavy than of yore, while her 
whole expression appeared brighter and more alert. It 
was evident for some time past that a strange change 
for the better had come over Mrs. Jones. 

“Not the same woman, Mrs. Cray — not the same 
woman,” she declared emphatically. “The Lord has 
done great things for me. I am a new creature, thanks 
be to God! You see, it is Miss Aquila’s desire that I 
should give Him all the praise, and I would be sadly 
ungrateful if I did not respect her wishes. She’s a real 
lady, and more than that, she’s a saint, if ever any one 
deserved the name.” 

Mrs. Cray nodded assent. 

“Ah ! indeed,” she murmured, “a saint on earth.” 

She spoke in tremulous accents, waiting for Mrs. 
Jones to continue. 

“You mind the day I cut the piece out of her cloak? 
287 


288 MARY 

She was dressed — same as always — in that beautiful 
rich color.” 

There was a pause, both women stared at each other 
as if paralyzed atdhe recollection. 

“Yes, it was just 'after my loss,” answered Mrs. Cray 
in a whisper. 

Despite the empty street, a certain fear of listening 
ears possessed them both. Mrs. Jones’ features were 
twitching violently with nervous spasms, brought on by 
the inward emotion of her thoughts. Then she spoke in 
a tone of deep conviction. 

“That day proved a turning point. I felt my blue 
lady meant well by me when she said as how the little 
hole in her cloak did not matter, and that I had better 
sleep on it, as maybe it would bring pleasant dreams. 
That piece of stuff (and rare good material it is) has 
never left me night or day since. To some it would seem 
strange, but the very first night I got a deal of comfort 
and repose. All my worries and troubles faded away, 
and I dropped off like an infant, me as never slept two 
five minutes together without a break. The people de- 
clare I cured myself, but I warrant some one else took 
my case in hand — we won’t mention who, seeing as she 
is so mighty particular not to be praised.” 

Mrs. Cray showed no sign of discrediting the state- 
ment as she replied: 

“If it were not for my own experience, I might echo 
the rest. I don’t mind confessing to you that Miss 
Aquila saved my reason after my poor lad’s death. She 
brought me back to myself. She gave me courage to 
face the world, for I was near on the borders of madness 
the night he was buried. Ever since she has stood my 
friend and visited me regular one evening a week. 
Though she only stays a short time, it does me more 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


289 


good than all the medicine. It is wonderful how far 
afield she gets at night, when her day’s work is done, 
looking in on sick folk, to take them comforts and speak 
kind words. Maybe you have seen her at your door, 
Mrs. Jones, and that she gave you something else to 
build your strength on, besides a little square piece of 
blue material, taken without a by-your-leave, as I well 
remember.” 

Mrs. Jones looked confused. It had always been held 
up as a reproach that she was responsible for spoiling 
the good lady’s cloak. 

“That’s my business, Mrs. Cray,” she answered. 
“Some like to hear tell of their charity, while others ask, 
as a favor, that you’ll let the matter pass without a 
word, but if anything would make me think Miss Aquila 
was a real angel, it is the change in Mrs. Benn.” 

Both women nodded simultaneously in mutual appre- 
ciation of the sentiment. 

“Ah ! the change in Mrs. Benn.” 

The widow spoke slowly, a mysterious expression in 
her eyes. 

“What do you make of it, Mrs. Jones? I under- 
stand, being a reformed character, she is quite a friend 
of yours now, brings the boy to see you and all that, 
though I hear he still sleeps up at the White Cottage 
along of Miss Aquila.” 

Mrs. Jones was nearing her gate, and now she walked 
more slowly, as if to gain time, thinking of the link of 
sympathy between herself and Mrs. Benn since the day 
when Sam’s mother first crossed her threshold — to talk 
of Mary. 

“Well,” she admitted, “maybe I do see a bit of Mrs. 
Benn one way and another. She drops in after her 
day’s work, just to tell me about her lady and what a 


290 


MARY 


deal is made of little Sam. I fairly wonder he isn’t 
spoiled, but there! the boy would do anything in the 
world for his mother and Miss Mary. In fact, he grows 
better and better every day, till Mrs. Benn gets really 
frightened to see him so good, says it ain’t natural in 
so young a child. I nearly told her too as it wasn’t 
quite natural either for a woman who had led the life of 
a hopeless drunkard to pass the Lion’s Claw twice a day 
and never so much as want to look in. But there! I 
said at first, and I repeat it again now, same as that 
afternoon when you were showing the cloak, ‘It’s noth- 
ing of earth that does it, nothing of this world.’ You 
should hear Mr. Vines on the subject; he, too, has a 
wonderful opinion of Miss Aquila. But, as I warned 
Mrs. Benn and I caution you also, why say what we 
know, just to be called soft? Mrs. Vines let on about it 
being Miss Aquila’s doing that Monk got another place. 
But for her he would have gone to the bad altogether, 
they say. Naturally, we don’t hear one-half, and it’s 
my belief she is doing good all the time. She just likes 
to work for others and get no thanks.” 

Mrs. Cray warmly agreed, racking her own brain for 
some return news. She had no intention of letting Mrs. 
Jones do all the talking. 

“I was fairly honored yesterday,” declared the widow 
at last. “Young Mr. Penreath called himself to see me. 
He spoke so beautifully about my poor boy that after 
he left I cried for two hours on end. Oh! I did take it 
kind ! He’s just as nice a gentleman as ever I saw and 
is going to start a church lads’ brigade at Abbotts 
Brooke. The boys are wild to join, seeing they’ll have 
uniforms.” 

Having proudly delivered this piece of information, 
Mrs. Cray held out a farewell hand, and taking a last 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


291 


glance up the street in the direction of the distant ceme- 
tery, passed on, leaving Mrs. Jones lingering by her 
gate, still pensive with thoughts of Mary. It was often 
at this twilight hour the lady gardener might be seen in 
the quiet street, bent upon some errand of kindness. 
The children knew her well, and the sight of her blue 
dress in the distance would be the signal for tiny feet to 
toddle instantly in her direction. Often Sam walked at 
her side, a bright, smiling boy wearing a white suit, so 
utterly different to the unhappy child known once as 
“Benn’s brat” of village ill fame. 

But this evening, though Mrs. Jones waited hope- 
fully, no sign of Miss Aquila brightened the deserted 
street. Some important work on the picture had made 
it impossible for Arrow to spare her from the studio 
until the last remnant of daylight died. Then, sud- 
denly realizing how many hours she had stood patiently 
without owning to fatigue, he refused to let her leave 
without some refreshment. 

“You are just going to sit there and not move until 
you have had tea,” he said, gently forcing her into a 
large easy chair by the open window. “ I know I am a 
perfect tyrant keeping you standing so long, but the 
work to-day was very difficult. You see, every detail 
must express yourself, solely and entirely. Nobody else 
could possibly pose for any part of the figure. The 
hands, which I have greatly improved this afternoon, 
are absolutely individual. They convey much, they are 
full of passionate protest; they plead like the lips and 
almost tremble. The attitude suggests also prayerful 
sorrow, combined with agonized tension. Yesterday I 
was dissatisfied, I had not done full justice to their 
powers of expression. Oddly enough, my boy made me 
see where I failed. He said: ‘Those hands are not 


292 


MARY 


beautiful enough for Mary. Can’t you idealize them, 
father?’ I saw at once what he meant, and I told him 
simply : ‘Her hands are not earth-made hands at all.’ ” 

Mary looked down at her peculiarly transparent 
fingers. 

“They are good for garden work,” she said, smiling. 

“Too good,” he added quickly, “far too good.” 

For a moment the recollection that she lived a life of 
toil annoyed him. Often as she stood to him through 
the long hours he marveled at her endurance. How 
strong she must be never to murmur or how patient and 
enduring! Was she, after all, just what she would have 
them believe — a daughter of the people? Did she owe 
this fortitude to sound peasant blood? Arrow consid- 
ered the mere idea preposterous. He longed to know the 
history of her past. From whence had she borrowed 
her quiet dignity of manner, that grace unconsciously 
mated to an air of majesty, difficult to conceal? In her 
he found the very attributes looked for in the Madonna: 
the simplicity of the low-born maid and the queenship 
of divine radiance. Purity, lowliness, power, supremacy 
— all mingled in one true heart. 

Now he gazed at her intently as she rested in the 
chair. 

“My wife and Oliver have gone to London,” he said, 
“and will not be back till late. Poor J osephine is trying 
to interest herself in the East End ; they are visiting a 
settlement. She is ready to do anything if the boy will 
only stay in England, and she never ceases praising you 
for the good influence you exercised over him. Jose- 
phine is quite a pathetic figure in her maternal efforts to 
please. Only last night she sat up late, making out 
exactly what would have been spent on a big ball we had 
decided to give here, and the amount is to be handed 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


293 


instead to this mission they are inspecting to-day. It 
was Oliver’s suggestion.” 

Tea appeared as he spoke, and Arrow had the tray 
placed beside Miss Aquila. He felt no grudge against 
the mission which drew his wife and son to London, for 
this quiet hour of leisure with Mary was an unexpected 
delight. 

“Poor little Sam will be expecting me,” she said. 

The artist frowned. Were these precious moments to 
be snatched from him by Mrs. Benn’s child? 

“He has his mother at the cottage,” came the quick 
retort. 

Mary could not deny this fact, yet more than once her 
eyes wandered longingly toward her little home. 

“Mrs. Benn stays, I suppose, till the child goes to 
bed,” continued Arrow, observing the glance impa- 
tiently. 

“Yes, sometimes she sits by him all the evening. I 
have known her stay till ten o’clock.” 

“Oh ! then you need not worry. I suppose she is quite 
a reformed character?” 

He asked the question conventionally, and his pal- 
pable lack of interest did not escape Mary. 

“Quite,” she echoed, handing him the tea he had asked 
her to pour out. 

“And you think the improvement will last?” 

Mary’s face expressed not only hope but conviction. 

“I am quite sure it will last.” 

There was a pause. Arrow had been making con- 
versation in an effort to detain her. He knew her habit 
of moving to the doof and then suddenly disappearing 
without a word. This often occurred just as his lips 
opened to voice an idea or ask a question, but pride 
never permitted him to follow the retreating figure. 


MARY 


294 

While he worked the Mary of his inspiration was 
everything he could desire, but the moment he laid down 
his brush she became all eagerness to fly back to her 
garden toil or the child watching for her on the cottage 
porch. 

“By the way,” he said, “what is the matter with 
Vines?” 

Mary looked up surprised. 

“Is he ill?” she asked. 

Arrow saw he had arrested her attention. 

“Oh! I don’t say exactly ill, but I think he has got 
nerves or something of the kind. Now, this morning I 
happened to come up behind him suddenly before break- 
fast. I felt sure he heard me, for he stopped watering 
the border and stood as if listening in an attitude of 
tension. Then, when I was almost on a line with his 
shoulder, he started aside with a sharp cry and fell 
against a tree. His face had blanched to the very lips, 
there were large drops of perspiration on his forehead, 
and for a moment he stared at me stupidly; I really 
thought he had gone mad. Directly I spoke he pulled 
himself together, tried to apologize and muttered some- 
thing about footsteps following him on the gravel. I 
was rather annoyed at the feeble explanation and won- 
dered if he had told the truth or was trying to put me 
off with a very lame excuse.” 

As Mary listened her eyes were full of understanding. 

“He certainly is nervous,” she said. “He has often 
complained to me about those same footsteps. He 
imagines he hears them behind him and that the garden 
is haunted. He really confessed as much to me only the 
other day.” 

Arrow laughed aloud. 

“Vines is the last man I should have suspected of such 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


295 


a foolish idea. It really looks as if he were in for some 
brain trouble. I shall make him see a doctor. Since the 
spring he has become dreadfully thin and looks very 
run down. He used to be quite a handsome fellow, but 
I thought this morning he appeared a wreck of his for- 
mer self. He works well, I notice, and seems t o take an 
interest in the place. I have never had any cause to 
complain of him before.” 

As Arrow spoke Mary was looking at the beautiful 
Rutherwyke gardens, the monastic ground reminiscent 
of so many century-old histories. The view from the 
studio, now the blinds were raised, made an imposing 
landscape of pasture, distant hills and lavish foliage. 
The fading light chased the shadows in long forks of 
flittering amber across a field where thirsty animals 
wandered to a wide pool, in which the red of the sun- 
light cast its ruby reflection. Knee deep in the refresh- 
ing pool stood wading cattle, cool, content, placid, while 
a Shetland pony hurried to join his more ponderous 
companions in the shallow water. Presently Mary 
spoke : 

“Vines has never been the same since Monk left. His 
wife said so only the last time I saw her. The poor little 
woman seems very worried about his health. He became 
depressed and made up his mind Monk would commit 
suicide. Hettie Vines declares her husband is not an 
easy man to understand, for it was after Monk had been 
proved a defaulter that this sudden devotion developed. 
It may have arisen from pity, it may have arisen from 
other causes.” 

The final words were spoken so low Mary apparently 
addressed them to herself as the expression of some in- 
ward thought. 

Arrow disliked any mention of Monk, but for the 


296 


MARY 


moment the subject rose so naturally he could not evade 
it without seeming abrupt. 

“Well, all that business,” he said, “was very unpleas- 
ant. It quite upset me at the time, yet you see it was 
the ill wind which blew us a great good. But for a try- 
ing revelation of dishonesty, the picture of Mary would 
never have risen to preach its lesson to the world. Fate 
sent you purposely to Rutherwyke, so after all I ought 
to be grateful to Monk. He made a hard fight for it, 
he was very sure about his innocence. His dogged de- 
fiance proved harrowing in the extreme. J osephine was 
miserable.” 

Arrow thought again of that morning in his study, 
when for the last time he told Monk not to try and 
justify himself, but to leave the place as quickly as pos- 
sible — without a character. Here in the quiet studio, 
under the light of Mary’s gaze and beneath the glory of 
that splendid canvas, the remembered words appeared 
oddly cold and inhuman. Now, as he spoke of the 
erring gardener, Mary might have been a gracious 
advocate of mercy, the Virgin materialized to plead for 
the souls of men, so sad was her face, so sweet the wide 
pity in her eyes. They brought some Latin phrases of 
devotion to his mind, ever receptive for new sensations. 
He wished he could have written them under the picture 
as he murmured to himself their rough translation : 

“Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. Hail, our 
life, our sweetness, our hope. To thee do we cry, poor 
banished children of Eve, mourning and weeping in this 
vale of tears.” 

His thoughts were far away from material surround- 
ings as they strove to recall Cranmer’s smooth transla- 
tion of a lovely string of Latin, concluding with a death- 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 297 

less plea to the heavenly mother: “Show us the fruit of 
thy womb, Jesus.” 

The studio seemed to Arrow suddenly like a place of 
worship, so holy was the woman’s form beside the pic- 
ture of the Madonna. This room became a Ladye 
Chapel, with Mary as the morning star, Mary the Ladye 
of Grace, presiding over a shrine of mystic rites and 
sainted forms. 

Dim rays of fading day took the character of tapers 
round the blue-gowned figure. He fancied he could see 
tongues of flame burning with a waxen light. His ears 
caught in fancy droning voices from a world of dreams, 
voices which chanted penitential psalms and filled the 
atmosphere with a liturgical spirit. As he listened his 
imaginative ear was soothed with surrounding harmo- 
nies in various modulations, sharp contrasts of light and 
shade, keys too accurate to jar, too amazing for reality. 

He wondered vaguely as he followed these rapturous 
creations of his overtired brain if he were worthy to 
breathe the same atmosphere as the woman who had 
inspired his latest work. He knew his painting was one 
of masterly power, nobly conceived, a type of mysteri- 
ous and profound womanhood, merging into divinity. 
He recalled how in early times none were permitted to 
paint holy and venerable images who came under the 
anathema of the Church. Art was sanctified and ele- 
vated to a holy calling. Vassari said of Beato An- 
gelico: “Che fa cose di Cristo, con Cristo deve sempre 
stare.” He would paint his Christ on his knees. This 
nrtist never used models and received holy communion 
^before venturing to depict the purity of the Virgin. 
Arrow instinctively contrasted this spirit of reverence 
with Andrea del Sarto, whose religious pictures por- 
trayed the handsome but vulgar features of his wife. 


298 


MARY 


A host of similar and more flagrant impieties came 
quickly on the heels of memory. 

To his picture Arrow acknowledged he had given, a 
heart of reverence. He had turned his mind to the task, 
striving to reverently express that fount of maternal 
love, gentleness and simplicity. 

Mary, seeing him engrossed in silent contemplation, 
respected the mood and sat with folded hands until he 
should speak again. With an effort he shook off the 
enchantment of* his waking dreams and recalled the sub- 
ject of their conversation. 

“I often wonder,” he said, “if I shall ever see the fel- 
low again.” 

Mary knew to whom he alluded and her eyes met 
Arrow’s with their somewhat disconcerting candor as 
she replied: 

“I feel convinced you will see him, and probably be- 
fore very long.” 

“Why, prophetess?” laughed the master who had 
dismissed Monk. 

“Well, he was an old servant and loved the place 
dearly. However harshly you treated him, he will never 
be content to drift entirely out of your life, and he will 
not be happy until he has proved his innocence.” 

Arrow sighed deeply. 

“I fear he cannot do that; I wish it were possible. 
I hate to feel a man like Monk could abuse my trust for 
years, when I had always treated him well. You see, I 
have no time to look into accounts or watch my money 
like some people. I rely on the honesty of those who 
serve me, and until this occurred, I fancy my record 
justified the confidence.” 

Mary’s face wore a strangely sad expression. Per- 
haps she was thinking of the evening when Monk came 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


299 

to the White Cottage, his features drawn with mental 
suffering, his soul lacerated and sore through wounds 
received. 

“How did you first discover he was an unfaithful 
steward?” she asked. 

Arrow moved uneasily in his chair. He would like to 
have brushed the subject aside but for Mary’s com- 
pelling eyes. They were fixed on him now with all their 
terrible magnetism of inquiry. 

“Oh! the first warning seemed, at the time, rather 
ridiculous, only it proved so disastrously correct. It 
arrived in the form of an anonymous letter, bearing a 
London postmark.” 

Mary leaned forward, and her breath came a little 
faster. 

“Then Monk had an enemy,” she declared with em- 
phasis. * 

“Or I had a friend,” replied Arrow quickly. 

“But anonymous letters are so wicked,” answered 
Mary in a troubled voice. “Often they cause the inno- 
cent to suffer for the guilty.” 

Arrow moved his head in slow, grudging consent. He 
disliked the memory of that letter exceedingly. 

“The writer,” he continued, “proved a veritable Jonah 
to our amicable arrangements with Monk. He or she 
(it looked like a masculine fist) bade us keep an eye on 
our orchids, declaring some valuable specimens had been 
sold from the Rutherwyke conservatories. I remember 
the exact words: ‘Your head gardener, a man named 
Monk, offered them to my gardener, but I instructed 
him not to buy, knowing you did not sell. I am writing 
anonymously for a very good reason, and should 
strongly advise you to watch and see if any of your 
treasured specimens disappear.’ I hardly took it seri- 


300 


MARY 


ously, and at any rate would not play the spy, but went 
straight to headquarters and sifted the matter at once. 
I found, to my surprise, that the chief orchid house was 
minus some of our most rare specimens, valued at large 
sums of money. I must say Monk proved a splendid 
actor. His surprise was so well feigned that at first I 
was almost deceived. He swore a robbery had been com- 
mitted in the night and that only the previous evening 
the missing plants were in their accustomed places. But 
the lie hardly held water a moment before the bubble 
burst. It was evident, from inquiries made, Monk had 
been the last to leave the orchid house, locking the door 
and taking the key home. The anonymous letter came 
by an early post, so it was clear he and I were the first 
to enter that morning. No one could have broken in, the 
lock being perfect and the glass uninjured. Not the 
smallest sign of disturbance carried out his theory of an 
unknown thief. Evidence of a further compromising 
nature followed. Figures had been altered in his books 
months back, but he seemed dazed and could not re- 
member any details of the occurrence. He pretended he 
had accidentally made a wrong calculation, declaring he 
was never too good at figures, but he could not possibly 
have thought at the time the accounts tallied. I don’t 
know why I am repeating all this. The whole history is 
so distasteful to me that I should be glad never to men- 
tion Monk’s name again.” 

Instinctively Arrow shrank from the painful side of 
life. He had never indulged a morbid temperament. 
Even when conceiving a subject-picture of dramatic in- 
tensity, it had always been his endeavor to obliterate the 
faintest suggestion of anything sordid. All his imagi- 
native impulses swayed toward finer emotions. Greed 
of gold and the petty deception of financial fraud ap- 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


301 


peared so low and incomprehensible that their intrusion 
clouded the fine edge of inspiration. He only wanted 
to forget the episode of Monk’s departure, surrounded 
by its ugly mystery of unacknowledged sin. The artist 
fancied his beautiful garden became defiled at the very 
recollection of Monk’s pilfering and the man’s unre- 
pentant attitude when called upon to confess. Those 
oft-repeated protestations of innocence left an uncom- 
fortable impression on the minds of both Arrow and 
Josephine. Together they resolved to forget the epi- 
sode as quickly as possible and never allude to it in any 
way. One of the artist’s strongest characteristics lay 
in his power of controlling his thoughts and living above 
mundane affairs in a world created by personal genius. 
His success, attained through this attitude, was proved 
by the unmistakable charm felt by relatives, friends, 
servants and strangers. 

Only to Mary he was the man she made him and not 
the man he willed himself to be. If she wished him to 
speak of Monk, he must needs hark back obediently to 
an unpleasant chapter and relieve its odious scenes. 
Knowing this, the soft woman’s voice murmured con- 
tritely : 

“I am sorry I hurt you by mentioning the subject. I 
must really go now. I have so much to do.” 

She rose and Arrow realized her departure was in- 
evitable. The large eyes, so full of expression, held in 
their depths a world of resolve which no persuasions 
cOuld shake. He moved to the door, opening it for 
Mary to pass out. Wildly he yearned for her to stay, 
but his tongue felt tied. He had contemplated — a thou- 
sand times — some sudden outburst of feeling in which 
he would entreat her to cement a profound and lasting 
friendship. Rut instinctively her spirit held him back. 


30 £ 


MARY 


To voice any such request would prove a physical im- 
possibility, while Mary wished it otherwise, controlling 
his will from her pedestal of mysterious dignity. All 
unconscious, Oliver had betrayed to his father that he 
too realized she was different to other women. 

“She will not unbend to me,” he told Arrow, “as she 
does to the poor village people or the child and his 
mother who worship her up at the cottage. Perhaps it 
is because of her position here. She never forgets she 
is employed at Rutherwyke. It almost looks as if she 
preferred the position of servant to friend, yet she could 
be such a friend!” 

Mary moved noiselessly to the door. She looked at 
the artist with tender concern, noting the dark lines 
under his eyes. 

“You must rest,” she said in that voice which made 
him associate her so peculiarly with motherhood, “rest, 
and do not trouble your brain with any thoughts at all. 
Can you make that active machine a blank just for 
once? It would do you so much good. Try and sleep 
for one quiet hour.” 

Arrow smiled at the advice so difficult to follow, and 
it struck him as strange that Mary should advocate 
what she most certainly failed to practice in her busy 
life of labor. 

“For your sake, I will try,” he said, “but I fear it 
will be an hour’s meditation, in which I shall think only; 
of the picture.” 

He wondered if she would interpret the words to their 
real meaning : “I shall think only of you.” 

He waited for her to answer, a fierce hope knocking at 
his heart that one day they would all unexpectedly face 
each other on a mental plane, merely as man and woman. 
Possibly the atmosphere of sanctity surrounding Mary 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


303 


might yet be pierced by a more human comprehension, a 
friendship of clear understanding replacing this baffling 
intercourse, in which she remained upon some height he 
felt he never could reach. But no reply came from her 
parted lips, though he fancied they uttered a silent 
blessing, seeing they moved without speech as she turned 
quickly away. 

“Mary,” he whispered to the still air as he watched 
her out of sight — “Mary, woman of mystery, what 
enchantment are you weaving over my soul? I swear I 
do not love you as men love, I swear it by God, I swear 
it by Josephine. I have never sinned in thought or word 
since first I stood gazing with breathless ecstasy upon 
the beauty of my Madonna. How is it she brings light 
when she crosses the threshold and takes, when she goes, 
all the joy and wonder of the sun? Why does she move 
me in her passionless purity — to give up my will to hers, 
to paint as she dictates, to obey like a child her smallest 
wish? Is the picture mine or hers? Sometimes I think 
it is not mine.” 

He moved back to the platform and stood with bowed 
head before his work, fancying Mary’s figure echoed his 
words from the canvas : “It is not mine.” 

******** 

Oliver felt peculiarly troubled at receiving no answer 
from Rye Ireland. Sometimes he wondered if his letter 
had been received, often he feared his friend resented 
strongly the change of plans. At Josephine’s earnest 
entreaty, he refrained from writing again, though he 
watched each post with daily anxiety and no little 
distress. 

As he entered the house with his mother after their 
pilgrimage to London slums, the welcome sight greeted 
him of an envelope in a familiar hand. He tore it open 


304 


MARY 


with an exclamation of delight. Then his face fell. 
The words were few: 

“Of course* Oliver, I understand. Your glowing de- 
scription of the woman was quite unnecessary ; the fact 
that a woman stopped you was enough for me. The 
old saying is a wise one, ‘Cherchez la femme.’ ” 

Oliver crushed the letter in a trembling hand and hid 
it away from Josephine. She did not ask to read it, but 
from that moment they never spoke of Rye Ireland 
again. 


CHAPTER XXI 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 

J OSEPHINE rejoiced secretly as she realized Ar- 
row’s great picture would soon be finished. She 
had grown so fond of Mary since the evening of Oliver’s 
return, she longed to see her constantly about the 
grounds. She never for a moment shared her husband’s 
fear that Mary would leave, Mary who seemed part of 
the place already. Very gradually her charitable ac- 
tions came to Josephine’s ears from various sources, 
the deeds of kindness to sick and poor which flowed 
from a loving heart as water from a spring. It rather 
shamed Josephine to know that this woman, who worked 
for her living, could find scope and opportunity for out- 
side labor which would have taxed the time and energy 
of leisured Mrs. Penreath. 

Often Josephine viewed with a sense of scorn her 
easy-going life, though she saw no way of remedying 
the evil until Oliver returned and suggested various 
fields of enterprise, ideas which his mother accepted 
with generous response. The boy appeared daily more 
delighted at the sympathy won from her. It became an 
absorbing occupation to refer their plans to Mary and 
seek her advice. 

Once again Oliver made his mother his constant com- 
panion and confidante, finding she could sympathize with 
the reverent admiration burning in his heart for Mary. 
305 


306 


MARY 


He also grew more deeply attached to Arrow, following 
his work with lavish appreciation. 

“You know,” he told Josephine, “I am gradually 
realizing that father is the greatest genius of his age. 
I never appreciated the fact before. It is wonderful — 
is it not? — to watch how every day he puts something 
fresh into the picture and always improves on what 
previously appeared quite perfect.” 

Mrs. Penreath nodded assent, but her eyes wore a 
pensive expression, and she seemed far away in distant 
realms of thought. Oliver’s words were true enough, 
the artist had excelled beyond his wildest dreams. His 
wife and son could not fail to observe the development 
of the sacred subject, the rounding of any crude 
shadow, glorifying every ray of light and heightening 
the picture’s emotional force. 

At last Josephine spoke, looking into the boyish eyes 
curiously. 

“People say, Oliver, no one is quite contented in this 
world, that life can never fully satisfy ambition. I 
have not asked your father, but I often wonder if this 
last great work really touches those heights of endeavor 
that crown his artistic desires. Does he dream, do you 
think, of surpassing this picture to which Mary has 
given so much of her time? He could not expect to find 
such a model again. I fear in the future he will search 
distractedly for a face and form capable of superseding 
his wonderful Madonna. All will appear common and 
unworthy, should he venture to draw the mildest com- 
parison between faces of earth and our spiritual Mary 
of the Lilies.” 

Josephine borrowed this name from Oliver, whose 
memory of his first meeting with a sun-wreathed figure 
in an avenue of bloom often served for meditation and 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


307 


quiet talks at twilight. He never tired of telling Jose- 
phine how deeply the stranger impressed him on that 
summer afternoon in a garden of sweet odors. 

Now his mother’s words brought a puzzled expression 
to his brow. The lilies were over, but fresh flowers 
opened as they wandered past scented borders, convers- 
ing happily in the old familiar strain. 

Oliver took his mother’s words to heart, a proof that 
his affection for Arrow had increased considerably since 
their first talk of Mary. Her name broke down a strong 
wall of reserve and heightened confidence between father 
and son. 

“I have often wished that I had inherited his talent ; 
I have envied him his fame,” the boy confessed, “but 
perhaps, after all, he is rather to be pitied. Though 
Mary has given him her personality to breathe life into 
a pictured form, others will make him suffer, and he is 
not the man to accept suffering in a patient spirit. Pos- 
sibly he will be spoiled for any future effort. If I had 
achieved that picture of Mary, I would never paint 
again. To turn out inferior work would be an insult 
to the masterpiece of his life.” 

The young man spoke with keen enthusiasm, wonder- 
ing why his words brought such a sudden glow to his 
mother’s face. He saw her eyes brighten with raptur- 
ous expectation. She pressed her hands upon her heart, 
as if to still its beating, as the color grew warmer in her 
cheeks. 

“Would you — would you be glad — if he never worked 
again ?” asked Oliver, turning to her quickly and speak- 
ing in a tone of marked surprise. 

For a second she dared not answer, afraid to reveal 
her inward emotion. Suddenly a wild longing pos- 
sessed her to betray some of the passionate yearning 


308 


MARY 


which she stifled in her breast, and throwing aside re- 
serve, she drew Oliver into her confidence. 

“Oh! my dear,” she said, “it is a cruel thought, yet 
pitifully human after all. Yes, indeed, I often wish 
Arrow could be just a man who relied on my love alone 
and for whom I made the world. I see many such for- 
tunate women, growing old beside men whose lives are 
simple and uneventful, lived solely in the light of a 
wife’s devotion. They return at night from prosaic 
toil, to find their recreation in a home of commonplace 
pleasures and useful occupations, too bourgeois, too 
ordinary for the hands of genius. Outside the home 
these humble breadwinners are just units in a crowd. 
They never hear the music of applause nor do their 
thoughts rise above the quiet joys of a domestic hearth. 
But in themselves they hold a glorious kingdom. The 
twin-heart of the wife beats in unison with the man who 
gives her his all in return for her all. The world does 
not ask to share him with her, the public take no interest 
in his name, she knows full well if she were to desert 
him, all would be emptiness and desolation. This, Oli- 
ver, is the real love, when battles are fought side by 
side, when two brave souls go smiling and unafraid 
through youth, through middle age, to the parting of 
the ways. Submerged, unfamous, entirely unknown, 
they taste the cup of rapture which I can never drink.” 

Josephine made her pathetic confession in a low, 
hesitating voice which sent a corresponding thrill of 
sadness through Oliver’s soul. He was beginning to 
understand life and character as he had never under- 
stood it before. His mother, whom he always con- 
sidered such a bright, joyful specimen of womanhood, 
was, after all, less happy than many a poorer sister, 
^rrow was far away in mind and spirit from the home 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


309 


in which he lived, utterly independent of his wife’s so- 
ciety, dominated by his talent. Oliver felt that a son, 
however loved, could never fill the gap, yet he realized 
his father was utterly unconscious of the wounds his 
fame inflicted. No advice, no entreaty could make Ar- 
row see with Josephine’s eyes, could bring before him 
the realization of her loneliness and heart-hunger. It 
was a situation to be left entirely in the hands of time. 

“When father grows old and tired, when his brush is 
weaker and his sight less strong, when his ambitions die 
down with weight of years, then he may be given to you 
altogether,” whispered Oliver, pressing her arm affec- 
tionately. “I shall watch for that day, mother, and it 
will be a great compensation for the failing of power 
and health.” 

They had turned into the Monk’s Walk, and there 
stood Arrow, stretching his arms as if to dissipate some 
painful stiffness. He turned, hearing their steps, and 
smiled at his wife. 

“I just came out for a breath of air and a little re- 
laxation,” he said. “Walk up and down with me, Jose- 
phine, if you are not tired. I must keep moving, for my 
muscles feel stiff, and my brain is clouded.” 

Oliver slipped away upon some slight pretext. He 
knew they would prefer to be alone, and he fancied 
Mary might have left the studio to wander in the 
grounds or attend to gardening business. Hoping for a 
glimpse of her blue dress, he hurried toward the con- 
servatories. Fortune might favor him and throw in his 
path this elusive woman who so often evaded his vigilant 
eye. Only once he glanced back and smiled at the sight 
of his mother as she feasted her eyes on the form she 
loved in sudden sweet content. 

“I want you to go away for a change,” said Jose- 


310 


MARY 


phine, gazing affectionately into Arrow’s weary face. 
“All this indoor work must certainly tell upon your con- 
stitution. Surely you could leave the picture now, if 
only for a week, and let us get a breath of sea air. We 
have had so little time to ourselves, and it will be winter 
again directly.” 

She noticed Arrow’s nostrils expand as if to breathe 
in fancy the welcome ozone. He dearly loved the sea, 
and the very thought of the fresh salt breezes gave him 
renewed vigor. 

He placed one hand on Josephine’s shoulder as he 
walked, merely to guide her steps and not with any in- 
tention of seeking support. 

“It is strange you should speak of going away,” he 
replied. “The idea has been in my mind all the morn- 
ing, though not for any reason of health. You know 
the lesson my picture teaches — well, I think by now 
the central figure represents all I can ever hope to 
achieve. I do not pride myself on this attainment, 
for I lay my success at Mary Aquila’s door. Whenever 
I look upon the Virgin of my canvas, I fancy she is the 
embodiment of the Bible phrase, ‘Without spot of sin.’ 
No one but this Mary, whom Constance Eastlake called 
miraculous, could have expressed that wondrous phrase, 
spoken of the blessed Mother. But still the picture rs 
incomplete. The background should preach its silent 
lesson as forcibly as the holy maid. At present she is 
standing by a rude shrine, while above you can see the 
roughly carved words, ‘Notre Dame des Vertus.’ Yet 
the shrine itself is empty. I have still to place an image 
there which has filled the real Mary with shrinking 
horror and paralyzing dread. Some years ago, on my 
walking tour through France with an artist friend — 
when you were ill, remember — we came to a little fishing 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


311 


village, quaintly named Ville de Marie. I have never 
forgotten the quiet spot, with its devotional atmosphere. 
It is a small locality dedicated to the Virgin, who, the 
peasants believe, especially blesses their labors on land 
and sea. I am sure I must have written to tell you 
about it at the time, it made such an impression on me. 
Everywhere the holy presence is emphasized, but in a 
manner so uncultured and repulsive that to a sensitive 
soul the inartistic handling almost amounts to insult. 
Close to the small inn where we stayed one shrine espe- 
cially — the celebrated Shrine of Ville de Marie — lives 
ever in my mind. I could not possibly forget the jar- 
ring note struck by its grotesque molding, its gross 
workmanship. The image, made of iron, had grown 
rusty with many years of exposure. The figure stood 
upright upon a slab, cut in the cliff, the form of a shape- 
less and hideous woman, with hands crossed upon her 
breast, a halo surmounting her heavily crowned brow. 
The features were so revolting as to suggest a crafty 
fishwife swindling over a deal of herrings. They call 
this monstrosity the Maiden Mother, and before its 
malign countenance young wives, unblessed with chil- 
dren, come purposely to intercede. Many take long 
journeys to reach this spot and there prostrate them- 
selves in all sincerity of heart, chanting a hymn, dedi- 
cated to ‘Our Lady and St. Joseph.’ To their wonder- 
ing eyes she is the ‘Bright Star of the Sea.’ I have 
thought, Josephine, that the iron image of Ville de 
Marie was just the last touch my picture required. Let 
us go and see if the place remains unchanged. I could 
sketch to the life that cruel travesty of art in its rocky 
niche, I could make it stand out, weather-beaten and 
storm-scarred, on the canvas over which Mary presides 
with her tear-dimmed eyes, shuddering at the brazen 


MARY 


312 

form, sinister and malign. It will help to express her 
meaning as she tells the world she is misunderstood. 
Its cruel countenance should recall the bloodshed and 
violence her name has produced, while the history of 
past ages shines in her face proclaiming her the victim 
of worship and devotion — the ever-humble, the ever- 
adored.” 

Arrow had talked quickly, walking at a sharp pace, 
hardly pausing to draw breath. It almost seemed to 
Josephine as if he forgot her presence and spoke en- 
tirely to himself. He had unburdened his mind eagerly, 
laying the full plan before her in reply to the suggestion 
they should go away. As she listened, the prospect ap- 
peared full of pleasant possibilities. A short sojourn 
at Ville de Marie would have the added charm of an 
object. 

She assented to the wish with a bright smile. 

“Certainly, Arrow, let us go,” she said. “I am afraid 
Oliver will not be able to come, as he has promised to 
spend a great part of the vacation at the settlement we 
visited in London. To me such personal sacrifice is 
wonderful in a young man who could have every luxury 
and pleasure. He has a very tender heart, and he saw 
one of the workers in the East End looking terribly pale 
and tired. On questioning him, he found that the poor 
fellow had not been given a holiday for two years. Con- 
sequently Oliver volunteered to take his place and to 
send him for a rest to the seaside. I must confess my 
heart sank to think of my boy in those stifling slums, at 
this time of year, too, but at least I consoled myself 
with the thought I should be able to visit him and some- 
times he would run down to Rutherwyke, if only for a 
few hours.” 

Arrow lighted a pipe, blowing a cloud of smoke into 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


313 


an army of winged tormentors of the insect tribe. 
Lately he had smoked less and eaten little. Josephine 
noticed that in two minutes he shook out the tobacco 
and replaced his old favorite in his pocket. 

“Rather waste of time to pity Oliver,” he said, “since 
the work is his own choice, and he willingly accepts the 
obligation. But I am glad he thought of sending that 
poor fellow away. I have great sympathy for people 
who cannot afford a holiday. I was thinking, Jose- 
phine, that all this summer my work has made tremen- 
dous demands on Mary’s strength. I wonder if you 
would object to taking her with us? Possibly she has 
never been out of England; certainly the little trip 
would do her good. Only yesterday I noticed how 
fragile she looked. Those very thin hands hardly seem 
human. The veins show through them like tendrils in a 
leaf. There is no place I would rather she visited than 
Yille de Marie, for since this picture, I cannot dissociate 
her from the holy figure of the canvas. Of course I 
have not mentioned the proposition to her, so it rests 
entirely with you. It was just an idea, and if you would 
rather we went alone, you have only to say the word.” 

Josephine considered a moment. She pictured her 
days spent in that small fishing village, while Arrow 
was engrossed with his important sketches for the mas- 
terpiece at home. What joy to have Mary all to herself, 
to sit at her feet, figuratively, rejoicing in the calm in- 
fluence of her sweet, pure nature ! Together they could 
talk of Oliver and his future, of Constance Eastlake and 
the child so miraculously brought to grasp the bright 
realms of reason. In such glad intercourse Mary would 
become still more a friend, one whom Josephine might 
bind to her for life. She looked up joyfully into Ar- 
row’s face, her eyes alight with eager expectation. 


MARY 


31 4 

“Oh! yes,” she said, “yes. Let us take her by all 
means. I am so glad you thought of it, dear. Will you 
ask her or shall I?” Arrow smiled. 

“The invitation must certainly come from you, Jose- 
phine, and if we were going to some fashionable resort, 
I am quite sure it would be declined. Perhaps, however, 
Ville de Marie may appeal to her, since its very name 
takes a hold upon the imagination. Tdl her how very 
quiet and simple the life will be. Tell her, too, that as 
she has had so large a share in the picture, I would not 
like to add the iron image without her approval.” 

Such words from Arrow were so amazing, judging 
from his attitude over previous works, that for a mo- 
ment they took Josephine’s breath away. How had this 
simple woman succeeded in so humbling his spirit that 
he asked her opinion on a subject entirely connected 
with his art? 

“If she were to object,” suggested Mrs. Penreath, 
“would you be guided by her?” 

Arrow was not prepared to answer such a direct ques- 
tion. 

“I would listen to her reasons,” he said, “whether I 
should agree is another matter altogether. But you 
need have little fear. It was her suggestion that the 
pictured shrine should contain an image which is really 
worshiped at the present time.” 

Josephine was all impatience now to learn her fate. 
If occasionally she still felt the old thrill of superstitious 
dread, it was so overshadowed by love that merely to be 
in Mary’s presence was a fund of restful happiness and 
unspoiled delight. The words Arrow had used kept 
returning to her mind: “Without spot of sin.” So 
Mary Aquila expressed to the artist this exquisite per- 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 315 

fection, this height of the immortal soul, this supreme 
good. 

“I wonder if I should find Mary at the cottage,” said 
Josephine. “No time like the present, you know.” 

Arrow noticed with pleasure his wife’s enthusiastic 
acceptance of the suggestion he had somewhat feared 
to make. Her attitude warmed his heart toward her. 
Just as Oliver’s admiration for Mary drew father and 
son together, so Josephine’s ready acquiescence now 
made her dearer to her husband. He bent down and 
kissed her as he had not done for years, the kiss of 
youth and passion, long, lingering, intense. The touch 
of his lips on her own sent through the stagnant veins 
of dormant womanhood the electricity of early romance. 
Once again she was a girl, trembling with the wonder of 
awakening. 

“Oh! Arrow,” she whispered, “how old we are grow- 
ing, only sometimes to reach back and feel like this.” 

The truth of the words oppressed him ; he drew away 
instinctively. 

“Yes,” he said, “age is our great enemy. No good 
fighting against his invasion, for he gains on us all the 
way.” 

Josephine shook her head. 

“We can conquer time in our hearts,” she declared. 
“Youth is not so elusive, after all.” 

Arrow sighed, glancing furtively toward the studio. 

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but hearts are only 
human, Josephine.” 

She could see he wanted to return to his work. His 
retort sounded a little cruel, still she was grateful for 
that involuntary moment of closer union — that long, 
endearing embrace. 


316 


MARY 


“I will try and find Mary,” she said, forcing a cheer- 
ful tone. 

Once more Arrow looked bright and almost boyish. 

“Why, I do believe you would like to go and pack 
your boxes at once, little woman,” he laughed. 

But Josephine did not catch the merry answer, for 
already she had left his side and was walking with swift 
steps toward the cottage. 

She found Mary bending over a book of accounts, 
with the child on her knee. Strangely enough, it was the 
old book which had convicted Monk. Mary apparently 
was studying the entries of long ago, while Sam sat 
silently watching her with his big round eyes. As Jose- 
phine opened the door noiselessly the little fellow put a 
small pink finger to his lips and whispered : “Hush !” 

Mary looked up, closed the book hurriedly and rose 
to her feet. 

“I told Sam not to talk, as I was busy,” she explained, 
smiling, and drew a chair forward for Mrs. Penreath. 

Josephine sat down, leaning one elbow on the shabbily 
bound volume. Its faded and marred appearance sug- 
gested the life which had gone under, the life crushed 
beneath a weight of shame. 

Very briefly Josephine gave an outline of her con- 
versation with Arrow, especially emphasizing her great 
wish that the invitation should be accepted. “Ruther- 
wyke could afford to spare its head gardener for this 
short sojourn at Ville de Marie,” she warmly assured 
Mary. 

The speaker’s eyes were full of anxiety ; she knew the 
answer meant much to her husband and perhaps more 
to herself. 

Just for a moment Miss Aquila made no reply, but 
stood by the open door, looking heavenward, her whole 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


317 


attitude suggesting tension and deep thought. It 
seemed to Josephine the blue-clad figure sought assist- 
ance from some invisible guide. Surely her soul waited 
for a message which other ears could never hear. The 
idea grew to conviction as Mrs. Penreath studied that 
silent form. She felt that Mary was far away, in a 
realm beyond the earth on which they moved and had 
their being. 

Suddenly she turned, and her face was alight with the 
strange radiance so often seen upon her features. 

“Yes,” she said softly, “thank you, I will come. It is 
very good of you to take me.” 

Josephine sprang to her feet and waved away the 
words of gratitude which rose to Mary’s lips. 

“Please do not thank me,” she pleaded, unable to con- 
ceal her delight. “I am only so very glad we shall be 
together. I must hurry back and tell my husband; he 
will be glad too.” 

Sam, who had stood silently near Mrs. Penreath, lis- 
tening to every word, vaguely realized that the visitor 
intended taking Mary away. Now he crept to the loved 
skirts, and, seizing them in a childish frenzy, buried his 
face in their folds, crying with such bitterness that his 
sobs pierced the cottage walls, shaking his small body 
from head to foot. In vain Mary knelt down and 
clasped him to her heart, kissing away streaming tears, 
while Josephine assured him it would be only for a short 
time. Still unconvinced, he clung to the tender form, 
which, to his baby soul, comprised all that was sweet, 
beautiful and dear, holding her fast, as if the suggested 
holiday meant the end of life and everything for him. 

“He doesn’t seem to understand,” said Josephine, 
growing impatient. “Tell him, Mary, you are coming 
back.” 


318 


MARY 


But Mary would not say the words. She only replied 
that perhaps she could quiet him if they were left alone. 
Mrs. Penreath, glad to escape from the pitiful moaning, 
nodded assent and stole silently away. Glancing back, 
she saw Sam’s golden head buried on Mary’s shoulder 
and caught the sound of unbroken wailing, loud, per- 
sistent, intense. 

“What a tiresome child!” said Mrs. Penreath; then, 
smiling, she retold herself the glad news: “Mary con- 
sents, Mary is coming with us — Mary, our friend.” 

Once again Arrow’s words rushed back to Josephine’s 
mind like the music of cool, rippling streams, like floods 
of glorious sunlight: “Without spot of sin.” How 
sweetly they rang on the scented air, gorgeous in their 
spiritual meaning, drowning the cries of a fractious 
child, filling Josephine’s soul with the recollection of 
pure white lilies which bloomed no more. 

She quickened her steps to reach the studio, where 
she knew she would find Arrow. As she entered he 
looked up with an expression of inquiry. She fancied 
he hardly liked to ask if she had seen Mary. His sensi- 
tive nature dreaded a refusal. He was so unaccustomed 
to be thwarted that the mere idea of having to relinquish 
a strong desire developed into physical suffering. 

“It is all right,” she said, and her voice sounded so 
peacefully happy and brimful of content he really felt 
her heart had recaptured the transient spirit of youth. 
“Mary will come with us. She thanks you very much 
for the kind suggestion.” 

Arrow drew in a long breath and laid down some 
brushes he was handling nervously. For a moment he 
had turned very pale, but now the color rushed back to 
his face in a flood of vivid crimson. He appeared quite 
overcome by the news, hardly able to stifle some wild, 


WITHOUT SPOT OF SIN 


319 


inexpressible delight. Then his chest broadened, his 
nostrils grew wider, and stretching his arms he suddenly 
gave vent to his feelings in a low, joyous peal of laugh- 
ter. Josephine welcomed the sound as an echo of 
youthful years. 

“Good!” he said. “Welcome — Ville de Marie, wel- 
come this sweet unbending of the one whose influence 
you yourself, Josephine, called so spiritual that it 
brought you in touch with the unseen. I begin to think 
Constance Eastlake was right, and Mary, the woman of 
mystery, holds some healing power for soul and body. 
Let us try and discover together what it is, what it 
means, what it teaches. We will be partners in this, as 
we are partners in life. That third presence only draws 
us closer together, am I not right?” 

Josephine held out her hands, placing them in his 
outstretched palms. His touch burned like fire, but she 
was cool and passive, a smile on her lips, a delicate pink 
in her girlish cheeks. 

“Yes, Arrow. It will be a journey in search of rich 
treasure which may be revealed to us at any moment. 
I have such a presentiment that something is going to 
happen, something unusual in connection with this visit 
to France; I cannot explain the feeling. Perhaps it is 
only the result of excitement and because Mary’s pres- 
ence always makes me fanciful. Indeed, we will en- 
deavor to solve the secret of her power, to discover why 
she moves us so strangely. Perhaps she will tell us 
more of herself while we are away together. It will help 
her to forget her position at Rutherwyke when she is 
our guest and intimate companion. How soon shall we 
go, Arrow?” 

He gazed down into his wife’s eager face and gently 
stroked the soft flushed skin by her small ear. 


320 


MARY 


“In a few days, if you are willing.” 

They looked into each other’s eyes, each reading the 
mutual excitement bred by a mutual thought. 

“Partners, remember,” whispered Josephine. 

She pressed his hands and held them to her heart as 
she spoke the binding words. 

“My own wish,” he answered. “I am not likely to 
forget.” 

As they stood side by side the eyes of the pictured 
Madonna looked down on them with maternal solicitude. 
In the background the untenanted shrine awaited the 
iron image of Ville de Marie. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE GREATER MEANING 

£ £ QO the master and mistress are taking her away 
with them?” said Hettie Vines. 

The faintly marked eyebrows were raised as she 
spoke and every feature of the colorless face denoted 
interrogation. 

“Yes,” replied Matthew. “They seem wonderful 
fond of Miss Aquila.” 

Mrs. Vines was nursing Joey and trying to control 
the antics of his twin brother with her foot as he 
crawled on all fours in front of the kitchen fire. 

“I’m sure,” she said, leaning forward and dragging 
him back against her knees, “it’s not to be wondered at. 
Though only a gardener, she’s fit to take her place with 
the best in the land.” 

Hettie had joined the ranks of Mary’s admirers in 
warm-hearted gratitude for many a kind deed. The 
twins, too, were ever eager for the sound of a soft foot- 
step on the threshold, and would run to Miss Aquila’s 
arms, drawn there by the strong magnet of affection 
and trust. 

“I don’t know how it is, but they are not shy with 
you,” Hettie would say. “When other visitors come, 
I have quite a bother with the two of them hiding behind 
my skirts and refusing to speak civil.” 

Matthew was washing some earth from his hands in 
321 


322 


MARY 


a sink by the door. He had grown so thin that clothes 
hung loosely on his figure which, a few months ago, were 
close and tight-fitting. 

“Of course, it is only for a short time,” he declared. 
“Miss Aquila won’t be gone long. It surprises me with 
the master always wanting her in the studio, how much 
work she manages to get through. Her eyes seem 
everywhere. Nothing goes on in the grounds without 
her knowing.” 

He thought, with lingering wonder, of the gentle 
presence which so often appeared at unexpected mo- 
ments. Once or twice, when Vines became a prey to 
increased nervousness, Mary, with those luminous eyes 
searching his very soul, would suddenly stand at his 
side, a smile of encouragement on her lips, as she gave 
some word of advice about the garden. Only Vines 
knew how many difficulties had been overcome, how many 
improvements suggested and carried through. He re- 
membered the failure of the lily crop in past years, 
marveling that for once Rutherwyke had boasted the 
finest blooms for miles around. Mere chance, of course, 
he told himself, yet deep down in his heart he liked to 
think their progress was in some way connected with 
the beautiful woman whom the master chose for his 
picture of the Madonna. 

Matthew dried his hands on a rough towel and looked 
with pride at the two strong boys now clambering over 
Hettie. The sight of the children reminded him that 
young Sam had been giving trouble at the White Cot- 
tage. 

“It’s awful the way that lad of Mrs. Benn’s takes on, 
since he heard Miss Aquila was going for a holiday. I 
used to say he wasn’t at all spoiled, although she made so 
much of him, but it seems he’s got a will of his own. He 


THE GREATER MEANING 


has taken it into his head that she won’t come back. 
Nothing can convince him to the contrary.” 

Hettie sat suddenly upright, and the straightening of 
her figure sent the twins sliding to the floor, where they 
sought entertainment in rolling over each other and try- 
ing to unlace their mother’s boots. 

“What has put such an idea into Sam’s mind?” she 
asked, turning strangely pale. 

Matthew failed to observe the change in his wife’s 
face. 

“I can’t imagine. Perhaps he has never been with 
people who could afford holidays. Maybe he does not 
like the idea of going back to his old home. He is to 
sleep with Mrs. Benn, but they have permission to use 
the Rutherwyke garden while the family are away.” 

Hettie bit her lips, her fixed gaze riveted on the fire. 
Matthew thought she was watching for the kettle to 
boil. Presently she spoke. 

“Mrs. Benn’s house is as spick and span now as the 
White Cottage. You know she is quite a reformed 
character. Miss Aquila had the place done up for her, 
papered and painted decently, and Mrs. Benn takes a 
real pride in keeping it clean. She is a good mother to 
that boy at last, but I guess he will fret for the one as 
understands him. Miss Aquila knows how to win chil- 
dren. It’s odd, Matthew, but I too have a sort of feel- 
ing she might not come back. I didn’t like even to name 
the thought, for, of course, it’s all foolishness. Only 
when you came to talk of Sam, I just wondered why the 
child dreaded her going much as I did when first I heard 
of the trip abroad.” 

Matthew laughed, patting his wife on the shoulder 
with a heavy, good-natured hand. 

“You and Sam,” he said, “both sort of cling to Miss 


MARY 


324 

Aquila, and that is why you are a bit afraid of letting 
her out of your sight. If the kiddies were ill, for in- 
stance, I do believe she would be the first you’d turn to 
before thinking of the doctor or the parson. I’ve seen 
it with others. How they fly to her when sickness comes ! 
You mind that evening the mistress sent me with some 
grapes to a poor man at Trune Well Villas? When I 
arrived, his wife called me in. I did not like to refuse, 
though I was a bit hurried. Maybe it’s wiser not to 
dwell on sad sights, but I can’t help remembering that 
scene. Miss Aquila had got there before me, his head 
lay on her shoulder, and already the death-rattle sounded 
in his throat. I think he blessed her with his dying 
breath, and if once you saw her in a sick-room you 
wouldn’t forget the sight in a hurry. She seemed the 
one ray of comfort, the one pillar of strength in all that 
dark night.” 

Vines brushed his forehead with his sleeve. He drew 
a deep breath, and despite the heat, shivered perceptibly. 
His body broke out in a cold perspiration ; he wiped the 
beads from his neck, feeling his teeth chatter. Hettie 
watched him with lynx eyes. She longed to question him 
further, but refrained with an effort. 

“I was stupid to talk as I did,” she declared. “It 
won’t do for us both to get fanciful. All the neighbors 
are noticing how you’ve fallen away, and Mrs. Cray 
begged me to feed you up and give you some strength- 
ening medicine, or, she warned me, there would be an- 
other empty house in Abbotts Brooke.” 

Vines laughed at the lugubrious words. 

“Cheerful sayings to repeat!” he said, pinching Het- 
tie’s chin playfully. “They try to liven you up, these 
ghoul-like old women. But don’t let my health worry 
you, Hettie. It is good to be thin, I can get about 


THE GREATER MEANING 


325 


quicker with less weight on my bones. As to dying, well, 
girl, there are folks that ain’t fit to die, and isn’t it the 
good ones the Lord takes early?” 

A forced smile accompanied the words, which had evi- 
dently not convinced his wife. 

“There’s some saying of the sort,” she confessed, 
bending over the children and concealing a sudden quiv- 
ering of her lips, “but you’re good enough, always 
thinking of me and the little ones or trying to do a kind 
turn to others.” 

Vines looked surprised. It was long since Hettie had 
paid him a compliment. He hardly thought she noticed 
his little efforts, imperfect reflections of a life-example 
lived with such simplicity on the Penreaths’ estate. 

“Oh! that’s nothing,” he muttered. “There is pre- 
cious little I can do compared to some.” 

Hettie knew who was in his mind as he snatched his 
cap off a peg and moved to the door. 

“Going out?” she queried. 

He was brushing his coat with his hands and straight- 
ening his tie. 

“Yes. I promised Miss Aquila to look in and see if 
I could strap her box or do anything for her before she 
started. I want to ask her, too, about the new plants 
which arrive to-night; she will have to leave some di- 
rections.” 

Mrs. Vines quite approved of her husband’s words. 

“Certainly go, Matthew, and help her all you can. 
Busy as she is, she found time to wish me good-bye this 
morning, and glad enough I was to see her. She took 
both the children in her arms and kissed them in such a 
way, it made one wish she were a mother. They laughed, 
and crowed, and stroked her face, good as gold until 
she left. Then they wanted to run after her, and I had 


MARY] 


S26 

a rare job coaxing them back into the house. Joey got 
the better of me, for while I was shaking his brother, he 
popped out at the back door and started running after 
Miss Aquila with the old word on his lips he never for- 
gets, ‘Angel . 5 He always calls her that. Then she 
turned and whispered something in his ear, and he came 
toddling up to me, real sorry for being such a bad boy. 
I wish I knew what she said. I should like to be able to 
manage them in the same way, but it’s just knack and 
patience. You see, I was born quick-tempered . 55 

Hettie seldom acknowledged a fault, and again Vines 
was amazed at his wife’s unexpected humility. He 
walked away, thinking deeply. Was this also the result 
of Miss Aquila’s influence? As he asked himself the 
question, it seemed only the other day that Mary passed 
with such quiet dignity through Abbot ts Brooke, paus- 
ing to rescue a fair-haired boy whose infant years were 
soiled by the degradation of vicious surroundings. How 
quickly the months had flown since the change at Ruth- 
erwyke and how altered the man who aspired to Monk’s 
post! Only the knowledge that his old comrade was 
doing well in a new situation saved Matthew from abso- 
lute despair. Again and again he assured himself Monk 
was once more a trusted servant, re-established in a 
position of authority, well paid, well housed — outwardly 
prosperous and happy in his work. But even as he tried 
to draw comfort from the thought Vines 5 heart warned 
him happiness could not be found until the tarnished 
character had been cleared. Monk would never know a 
good night’s rest, never enjoy the sweets of toil and 
well-earned recreation till the real thief stood exposed. 
When Matthew reached the White Cottage Mary was 
ready to go. Her box had been taken with the other 
luggage to Abbotts Brooke station, and after bidding 


THE GREATER MEANING 


sn 


Sam and Mrs. Benn good-bye, she was to join the Pen- 
reaths, that the start from Rutherwyke might be made 
together. 

Mrs. Benn, wearing an expression of concern, held 
Sam’s hand tightly, while he fixed his eyes, swollen with 
crying, on Mary’s face. 

“He has promised me he will be very good, miss, while 
you are away,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t know how to 
thank you ” 

But Mary cut short the words, since she could read 
in the earnest face all the gratitude of a thankful heart. 

No thanks were needed, she assured Mrs. Benn, then 
added in an undertone: “I know I can trust the king’s 
mother.” 

Vines waited outside, hearing the gentle voice speak- 
ing its farewell utterances. He felt Hettie was right in 
wishing that Mary were a mother. What a wealth of 
maternal tenderness lingered in the musical voice, in- 
spiring love and confidence. 

Suddenly the door opened and Miss Aquila slipped 
out, closing it noiselessly, pausing a moment to listen. 

“We don’t want Sam to watch me go,” she explained, 
signing to Vines to follow her as she hurried away. 
“Mrs. Benn has a new toy ready to distract his atten- 
tion. He will be happy again directly ; children so soon 
forget.” 

As they passed by the bright hedge of holly, she 
glanced back at the cottage with a lingering look and 
sighed slightly. Then, as if shaking off a sad thought, 
spoke cheerfully of work to be done, giving Vines a full 
paper of directions for the garden, so no mistakes could 
arise. He appreciated her eagerness that all should go 
well during her absence. Nothing had been forgotten, 


328 


MARY 


and he fancied her whole soul was centered in the culti- 
vation of Rutherwyke’s splendid grounds. 

He spoke his thoughts aloud as he studied the writ- 
ing, making a mental note to every word. 

“It’s a great encouragement, miss, to see how you 
have taken to the place,” he ventured to say. “It puts 
heart into those who work for you.” 

She half closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance 
of September flowers. A large verbena plant stood 
against her hand ; she paused to press between finger and 
thumb those long pungent leaves with their lavish gift 
of perfume. 

“Life without work would be very empty,” she said; 
“and our work, Vines, is so full of teaching, if we would 
only accept the lesson.” 

“Our work !” 

As these two words fell on his ear he felt his heart 
beat faster and the blood mount to his head. A wild, 
reckless desire seized him to fall on his knees at the 
feet of this woman and ask her to bless him before she 
went. His thoughts were as tangled skeins of fevered 
brain fabric, which whirled, twisted and beat upon his 
temples, while a sudden haze rose before his eyes. If 
she had not stopped by the verbena bush he must have 
stumbled and groped like a blind man. His eyeballs felt 
on fire ; they grew painfully bloodshot. His throat was 
parched and his speech died upon his lips. 

All the weight of his past dread, all his nervous fears 
culminated in an awful sense of strangulation. He 
dragged at his collar, breaking the stud, which fell to 
the gravel. 

Mary, apparently unaware of his emotion, picked a 
tiny verbena leaf and hid it in her dress, as if all her 
attention were centered on the plant. 


THE GREATER MEANING 


329 


Vines gradually regained his self-control, grateful 
that those searching eyes were cast down. Again he 
whispered beneath his breath, not only to himself, but 
to the garden with its treasures of tree, verdure and 
early autumn flowers : “Our work.” 

That one little syllable, “our,” made his daily round 
of manual labor sweet with the union of mutual en- 
deavor. He saw new beauty in the delicate tints of the 
Surrey landscape. Mystery lurked in the tender grays 
of the atmosphere. He drank deeply the intoxicating 
freshness wafted to him through Nature’s healthy mood. 
Life-giving breezes touched his brow, and he fancied 
he breathed a strange rejuvenating element in the air 
of the garden, which Mary enchanted by the magnetism 
of her presence. 

“You have taught us the lesson sure enough,” he 
declared, with complete confidence in his fellow- workers, 
whose eagerness to please her almost equaled his own. 
“No one here will be idle in your absence, miss. We shall 
keep things up to the mark and look for your return.” 
Here he caught his breath, recalling Hettie’s presenti- 
ment, then repeated fervently: “Ah! and look for your 
return.” 

Mary’s eyes were still turned away, and now she 
walked quickly. No time to tarry where long beds of 
lavender attracted countless swarms of bumblebees. No 
time to snatch a sprig of rosemary in remembrance of 
Rutherwyke. The hour of departure was at hand, and 
she knew the artist and his wife would be waiting for her 
at the hall door. As she approached the house Vines took 
off his cap, murmuring a half-inaudible “good-bye.” 

Mary held out her hand with the frank gesture of a 
friend. Vines seized it, almost as a drowning man 
might grasp a rock of safety. Their eyes met, the 


330 


MARY 


woman’s tender with compassion, seeing the white misery 
of his face, the man’s yearning to speak some secret 
word her presence all but forced from his trembling 
lips. 

“When she comes back,” he thought, “when she comes 
back, I will try and brave the worst.” 

The contact lasted only for a second, then the cool 
white hand withdrew and their brief good-bye was said. 
Vines remained standing by the borders of rich blossom, 
watching the blue figure move away with that soft 
tread, noiseless as a moonbeam passing through the 
grounds. He saw the Penreaths come out to welcome 
her, saw Josephine take both Mary’s hands and hold 
them a moment fervently. Arrow looked bright and 
alert, all the weariness of indoor work had vanished 
from his face, as he greeted Miss Aquila with a smile. 

Vines crept nearer, that he might keep her in sight up 
to the last moment. The sun shone on her blue cloak as 
she stepped into the brougham, the rich tone seeming to 
strike a note of wondrous brilliancy in the color scheme 
of a mellow day. Such a blue as the old stained-glass 
windows could show in the little church at Abbotts 
Brooke, where many a lover of antiquity came to ex- 
amine the ancient edifice dedicated to St. Mary. 

As the carriage drove away Vines followed its de- 
parture with hungry eyes, running to the south gates to 
gaze up Pilgrim’s Way, till only a cloud of pale wind- 
swept dust filled the empty road. Then, as he turned 
back, a sense of emptiness and desolation swept over 
him, more complete in its intolerable solitude than any 
experience of recent years. It was the loneliness of 
spirit which weighed him down, shutting out all the 
brightness of the sky. Despite the dancing sunlight, he 
looked above with an eye of doubt. 


THE GREATER MEANING 


331 


“Working up for wind,” he told himself. “I shan’t 
be surprised if we have some strong gales within the next 
few days. September was stormy last year. I don’t 
trust the weather.” 

As Mary drove through Abbotts Brooke she glanced 
neither to right nor left, though many of her poorer 
friends stood at their doors, guessing the carriage from 
Rutherwyke Place would pass at this hour. They knew 
from her she was going abroad, for she had bidden each 
a temporary farewell, leaving several small mementoes 
to cheer their solitude and the memory of kind words 
spoken in that sweetly haunting voice. 

It seemed to Arrow (accustomed to watching her fea- 
tures) that she was deeply preoccupied. Only when the 
train sped away from the old scenes she threw off some 
disturbing thought and regained the calm beauty he 
knew so well. 

Seated by the window with clasped hands, her eyes 
rested dreamily upon the fair pictures Nature unfolded 
to her view. A silvery light hung over distant hills and 
waters. Miles of land lay bathed in tender radiance. 
A rising breeze swept marshy tracts, merrily waving 
tall reeds, rocking slender boughs with a* rhythmical 
touch of wind-blown life so dear to the heart of the 
landscape painter. But Arrow and Josephine looked 
rather at the beautiful Madonna-like face of that third 
presence, which fascinated them by the restfulness of its 
pose. Mary loosened her cloak. Gradually it fell from 
her shoulders, hanging about her in folds of unstudied 
grace, revealing the only ornament they had ever seen 
her wear, an old-fashioned girdle of silver gilt. 

Never had the exquisite form appeared so unquestion- 
ably perfect to Josephine. She exchanged a glance with 
her husband, fancying his eyes said the one word, 


332 


MARY 


“partners.” Then she turned to her dressing-bag and 
drew a postcard from among the papers in an outside 
pocket. 

“When I wrote for our rooms,” she said, “Madame 
Tellier, the proprietress, sent me this picture of Ville de 
Marie, taken from the little pension at which we stay. 
I found, on making inquiries, there was no better hotel. 
Fashion has, so far, neglected that sweet, sanctified spot 
with its quiet devotional atmosphere, its many supersti- 
tions. Arrow told me quite enough of the place to fire 
my imagination, and I like to feel we are going to a 
little unspoiled world, where all the old people are only 
overgrown children.” 

She handed Mary the photograph of a wild coast, 
with some fishing-boats on an otherwise neglected beach, 
and a quaintly built inn close to the seashore, nestling 
between two cliffs. 

For a moment the large eyes with their soulful expres- 
sion studied the scene carefully ; then Mary looked up 
with one of her sudden smiles, which seemed to diffuse 
light as a burst of sunshine. 

“No,” she said, “it has not altered at all. It is just 
the same dear little place. One could almost fancy it 
had been tossed up by the sea. The houses are so un- 
even, they look as if they were tumbling down.” 

Josephine started visibly. For a moment she thought 
her ears deceived her. 

“You — you surely don’t know Ville de Marie?” she 
asked in questioning surprise. 

Mary appeared quite unconscious of the obvious 
amazement written upon Mrs. Penreath’s features. 

“Yes. Many years ago I stayed there for a short 
time. It was in the winter and the coast was terribly 
bleak.” 


THE GREATER MEANING 


333 


Arrow bent forward, deeply interested. 

“Then,” he said, “you have seen the iron image?” 

Mary’s lips moved as if to speak, but no words came. 
She bowed her head in assent. Then, after a moment’s 
pause, she recovered from her temporary dumbness and 
softly acknowledged : 

“I have seen the iron image.” 

Arrow’s face glowed with a rush of blood-red color, 
which spread to his neck and ears. 

“Last night,” he said, “when I closed my eyes, I tried 
to see the rusty figure in all its hideous detail, and sud- 
denly the thought came to me that in my picture I would 
imbue it with even greater meaning. The iron image 
shall stand for all the cruelty of diverse faiths. The 
iron image shall be the stumbling-block of nations, the 
bone of contention over which men fight, soiling their 
souls with hatred and confusion. It shall represent the 
vast sorrow of a simple, undefiled Mother who weeps 
over the children of the world, entreating them to turn 
to One who still says pityingly : ‘They know not what 
they do.’ That Ville de Marie shrine will be the crown- 
ing symbol of my sermon on canvas.” 

Arrow spoke with exaltation. He seemed carried 
away by a sudden rush of thought. His eyes saw Mary 
only, Mary alone. Josephine faded into shadow. The 
prosaic railway carriage no longer framed the beauty 
of the woman to whom he eagerly unfolded his ideas. 
Her features drifted back to the setting of the picture, 
rising above a mean and garish shrine. She was no 
model for an artist to build his fame upon, but the real 
personality, dazzling, immortal, yet stricken and in- 
jured, speaking, praying, crying to the children of men: 
“Have pity on Joseph’s wife.” Instinctively Arrow gave 
his imagination full range. He fancied he saw the di- 


334 


MARY 


vinely appointed maiden, bound in wedlock to one of low 
estate. He entered in spirit the home at Nazareth, 
piercing those hidden years, unknown to history, with 
the eye of vision and sympathetic understanding. 

Mrs. Penreath watched him curiously. She recog- 
nized the signs of intense mental excitement in her hus- 
band. She had seen before that strange glitter in his 
eyes and the sudden swelling of his veins. Well she 
knew how constant work and brain fatigue robbed him 
of rest, telling upon his nervous system with relentless 
demands. She feared for the overwrought mind, fully 
realizing that genius often walked hand in hand with 
madness. 

Mary leaned back, lowering her eyes. She hardly 
seemed to hear the quick flow of words, or else their 
utterance proved so distasteful she preferred to ignore 
them. The color fled from her face, leaving it like 
mother-of-pearl, with the softness of a fresh magnolia 
leaf, before the brown tint of decay creeps over its pure 
white surface. Josephine studied Arrow closely, then 
touched his sleeve, as if to rouse him from a stupor, but 
he neither felt the pressure on his arm nor saw her in- 
quiring look. Josephine drew quickly back, hurt and a 
little afraid. His attitude of absorption shut her out, 
broke the partnership, left her trembling in lonely won- 
der, at a loss to comprehend his absent-minded attitude 
and deep, concentrated silence. 

Mary noticed the movement, then rose, and crossing 
to the opposite seat, took her place at Mrs. Penreath’s 
side, feeling the artist’s wife was in need of sympathy. 

“Your husband is doing a great work,” she whispered 
in tender accents, reading Josephine’s thoughts — “a 
work paid for with the heart’s blood. Be very patient 
at Ville de Marie. You must give him up to this final 


THE GREATER MEANING 335 

effort, the completion of a picture dearer to him than 
life itself.” 

Mary’s words were more a command than a request. 
As she spoke she spread her long blue wrap over Jose- 
phine’s knees, apparently to shield her from the dust of 
the open window. 

“Dearer to him even than the partner of his life?” 
murmured Josephine so low that only Mary caught the 
words. 

“It is only for a little while,” she answered gently. 
“The picture will soon be finished now, and your rival 
is merely an iron form wrought by unskilled hands, an 
image standing (as your husband likes to think) for 
the cruelty of diverse faiths. If his work gains, you 
will not grudge him those days of labor by the sea.” 

Josephine leaned against the speaker with a sense of 
security, imparted by her nearness. She drew the cloak 
closer, stroking the undulating folds with hands that 
trembled slightly. 

She longed to ask Mary why she had visited Ville de 
Marie in the past, what drew her to that tiny village 
buried in seclusion. But some such feeling as Constance 
Eastlake described when the Christmas Day incident re- 
mained a mystery kept Josephine dumb. If Mary 
wished her to know, she would surely speak again of the 
mysterious visit to those wild shores on a desolate coast, 
where only the poor lived. 

Arrow remained passive and silent, his eyes resting 
upon the seat so recently vacated by Mary. The rush 
of the train helped his tired mind to develop new absorb- 
ing ideas for the strengthening of a canvas already 
vitally alive with suggestion. He had not noticed that 
his words met with no response nor did he see Mary 


336 


MARY 


move to Josephine’s corner of the carriage, for his 
thoughts were far away in distant Ville de Marie. 

“The greater meaning !” Those three words rang in 
his brain as he dwelt on his treatment of the iron image, 
picturing undying controversy over sweet and tender 
womanhood, pitiless hate, cruel sword-thrusts, taunts, 
jeers, and hardest of all, an endless weight of worship, a 
vast, unceasing storm of prayer, lacerating a woman’s 
humble, protesting spirit. 

The train rushed on. Mary still spoke in undertones 
to Josephine. 

“I think he will sleep,” said the anxious wife, glancing 
across at his bent head and drooping shoulders. “He 
looks thoroughly exhausted.” 

Arrow caught the words, offering no contradiction. 
Instead he closed his eyes, thus avoiding conversation. 
Better to feign sleep than try to appear wakeful with 
a soul that touched already the shadowland of dreams. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 

T HE crossing to France proved a smooth one, though 
news of a storm sweeping over Europe brought 
many prophecies of rough weather. Josephine read the 
accounts and trembled. She dreaded the return journey. 

When they reached Ville de Marie a drifting mist hid 
the sea, only just revealing ghostly towering rocks, with 
sharp peaks shooting through a shroud of mysterious 
vapor. 

Madame Tellier, proprietress of Pension des Voya- 
geurs, explained that recent rains had deadened the 
brilliant skies for which the neighborhood was famous. 

“Indeed,” she said, courtesying low, “monsieur and 
his party have brought most unusual weather for the 
time of year. We are blessed with more sunshine here 
than anywhere for miles around. It is the special gift 
from our Lady of the Sea.” 

She bent her head reverently as she spoke the final 
words. 

They were standing in the entrance hall of the strag- 
gling building with whitewashed walls and scrupulously 
clean, uncarpeted floors, which were scrubbed daily by 
able-bodied women, born and bred in the province, 
daughters of hardy fisher-folk, accustomed to manual 
labor. The smell of soap and water proved not unpleas- 
ing in its primitive simplicity. 

337 


MARY 


“I hope you have arranged to keep us a sitting-room,” 
said Josephine, referring to a letter written on thin 
note paper, bearing Madame Tellier’s address. 

The Frenchwoman’s round, red face broke into smiles. 

“Indeed,” she replied, “it was such a strange request. 
Her visitors never required to stay alone in an apart- 
ment, except for sleep at night, but she had obliged 
madame. A salon on the first floor was in readiness 
overlooking the sea. Of course, an extra charge must 
be made to serve the meals privately.” 

As Madame Tellier spoke she kept her eyes fixed upon 
Mary with an expression of awed amazement, possibly 
created by the stranger’s beauty. Though addressing 
the words to Mrs. Penreath, her gaze turned to that 
other figure, quiet, dignified, Madonna-like, in the back- 
ground. They spoke of rooms, of terms — of common 
things — but it was no common light which leaped to 
Madame Tellier’s face and glowed there as she scanned 
the third visitor. Deep down in the bourgeoise soul a 
great wonder kindled, though she could not have ex- 
plained the exact nature of her surprise. She felt her 
knees knocking together beneath her plaid skirt, her 
bosom heaved with emotion under the crossed sc&rf 
draping her ample proportions. She hardly knew what 
she said to Mrs. Penreath, pulling herself together with 
an effort as she caught Josephine’s request to kindly 
show them to their rooms at once. 

Madame Tellier apologized for her slowness, calling 
loudly for some keys, which a boy in an apron brought 
hurriedly, as if surprised at the sharp, shrill words. 
Evidently haste was not the custom in that quiet, home- 
like retreat. 

“Of course, the ladies were tired after so long a jour- 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


ney,” Madame Tellier declared. “Their baggage should 
be brought up at once.” 

In procession they mounted the shallow wooden steps, 
following her down a narrow passage lined with very 
high doors. Proudly Madame Tellier turned a large 
key in a ponderous lock, flinging open the portals of the 
private salon. 

It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished, with 
long windows opening to a balcony. On the center 
table a pottery vase of cottage flowers proved the one 
attempt at decoration. 

Arrow went straight to the balcony and peered into 
the fog. He could hear the low sighing of the sea and 
the break of waves on the shore, a sound so close at hand 
he fancied he could have thrown a stone to the white line 
of foam. The beach of varied hues met the 'pension 
walls, where, in full sight of the windows, men and 
women sat mending great dark nets beneath the shadow 
of dry-docked boats. 

“Josephine,” he said, “come and look. We are right 
on the beach. In clear weather the view must be de- 
lightful. I had forgotten the hotel was quite so near 
the sea.” 

His wife joined him, eager to try and pierce the over- 
hanging mist, but Mary’s deft fingers were busily trans- 
forming, by a few light touches, the clumsily arranged 
vase to a thing of beauty. 

“Mademoiselle has great taste,” murmured Madame 
Tellier, watching the quick hands and graceful figure 
with eyes of keen appreciation. “Some kill the blossoms 
with heavy treatment, others make them to live. See, I 
will give you fresh flowers every day from my own gar- 
den. We pick only for the salle a manger, but for you I 
break through a rule, because — because ” 


340 


MARY 


She bent forward, coughing suddenly, as if choked by 
violent emotion. 

“Ah! mon Dieu,” she gasped, “I have no breath; it 
goes from me, mademoiselle, when I behold the perfec- 
tion of your face.” 

Mary regarded the woman with a pitying expression, 
reading weakness in the gaping stare and loose, uncon- 
trolled lips. 

“You have strange ideas, Madame Tellier,” she an- 
swered softly. “But please believe compliments are 
very distressing to me. I have no beauty but that per- 
haps of thought and spirit, which all may possess if 
they choose.” 

The woman flushed at the slight rebuke, and murmur- 
ing “Pardon,” still stared as openly as before. 

Mary smiled a sweet forgiveness, at which Madame 
Tellier took heart of courage, adding boldly : 

“All the same, I spoke the truth, mademoiselle. Peo- 
ple so often wish not to hear what is true, even though 
it be good. A beautiful lady like yourself asks not a 
compliment, while others seek always for the words 
which are false, the compliment they cannot receive by 
looking in their mirror.” 

“I wish,” said Josephine’s voice, “the mist would 
clear, if only for a minute, that we might see the view. 
Certainly Ville de Marie is not behaving kindly to give 
us such a welcome.” 

Arrow leaned on the iron balustrade, gazing into the 
hazy atmosphere. 

“Perhaps,” he answered in a low tone, “Ville de Marie 
does not want us. This cold, white mist seems to me 
like the frown of Notre Dame des Vertus. She is con- 
cealing her dwelling-place from newcomers, she is cloud- 
ing the sea over which she presides, wrapping it in a 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


341 


garment, holding it safe to her bosom, hidden from 
curious eyes — a pearl in a shell, a vast presence shut 
away behind a wall of unsubstantial haze.” 

His poetical idea appealed to Josephine, though it 
filled her with vague memories of past uneasiness, when 
Mary’s presence at Rutherwyke first brought a sense of 
alarm. She experienced some such emotion as on that 
well-remembered evening, when, by her husband’s or- 
ders, the Gabriel bell ceased to ring. 

“I don’t like to think the iron image may be working 
us ill,” she said, covering the fantastic sentiment with 
an outward effort of lightness. “I pictured such a sun- 
bathed, smiling spot, but perhaps we have come a little 
late in the year, and the best days are over.” 

For Arrow her final words held a deeper meaning. 
He bent lower upon the rail, drawing the fog-laden air 
into his lungs and caring little that the balcony dripped 
with moisture. 

“The best days are over,” he echoed, and his mind 
recalled those quiet hours in his studio, when Mary 
stood in her guise of sanctity as the pure Mother, chosen 
of God, full of grace and virtue. Josephine, thinking 
he alluded to the weather, merely scanned the gray 
heavens to try and trace some ray of light or thread of 
welcome blue. 

Now the proprietress pressed the newcomers to in- 
spect their other rooms, and Mrs. Penreath turned 
away with a sigh. Arrow had not the curiosity to 
follow, but waited out in the still air, trying to catch the 
conversation of the netmakers on the beach. Presently 
he heard Madame Tellier’s heavy footsteps descending 
the uncarpeted stairs. Then, seeing neither Mary nor 
Josephine had returned, he concluded they were resting, 


342 MARY 

and obeyed a sudden desire to go in search of “Notre 
Dame des Vertus.” 

As he neared the pension porch he heard Madame 
Tellier talking excitedly to a group of provincials and 
wondered if they were visiting Ville de Marie from re- 
ligious motives or simply for the enjoyment of sea air 
after inland toil. Possibly they were pilgrims to the 
shrine of the iron image. 

“ Mon Dieu! she is belle comme une ange Arrow 
heard her exclaiming. “Our Lady even could not be 
fairer. Wait until you behold with your own eyes. It 
is the face of a saint, sweet as heaven, bright like Para- 
dise. To see her smile is to see the sun ” 

This rapturous description broke off hurriedly as the 
speaker perceived Mr. Penreath’s approaching figure. 
She dropped one of her ever-ready courtesies, asking if 
she could offer him any information. He paused, look- 
ing up the narrow white road leading to the foot of the 
cliff. 

“I want to visit the old shrine, the one which contains 
the sacred image of the Madonna,” he explained, for- 
getting, after his long absence, the exact locality. “I 
fancy it stands at your end of the town, where one turns 
to the beach at the corner of this road.” 

Madame liked the word “town” from English lips. 
It gave the place an added importance which pleased 
her ear and gratified her pride. So often she heard it 
termed by British travelers “a dear little village,” while 
once it had been called in her hearing “a God-forsaken 
hole.” 

“If monsieur will go to the right just here by the 
post-office,” she replied, “it is not three minutes’ walk,” 
pointing with a broad, square finger. “The shrine is 
cut in the shelter of the cliffs, a holy refuge from the 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 343 

storms of winter, fit to hold our Star of Ocean, our Lady 
of the Sea.” 

She spoke with simple sincerity. Undoubtedly to her 
eyes the iron image was a work of exquisite design, 
viewed in a spiritual sense, and rapturously worshiped. 
Arrow paused, and his manner encouraged madame to 
open her expansive heart, which warmed to all the holy 
wonders of Ville de Marie. 

“I think, monsieur, that I remember you many years 
ago, with another English gentleman. He was Catholic, 
and we had the pleasure to entertain you here. He loved 
this place, for he knew well how comfortable it is for 
our fishermen to first look, when going out on the waters, 
into the loving eyes of a Mother gazing at them from 
that sacred shrine. It is sweet also to inland pilgrims 
who come to us from time to time. They do not scorn 
her offices, for they say she shields them from the 
storms of the world. None enter a house but by the 
door, so they dare not go to their King Jesu but by our 
Lady, which is the gate.” 

Arrow listened attentively, then raising his hat, re- 
plied : 

“Yes, I came in past years to your pension , and my 
friend is now dead. He often spoke of our visit; he 
never forgot Ville de Marie.” 

Madame Tellier crossed herself, muttering a prayer 
for the departed soul. When she looked up again. 
Arrow had already reached the turning to the beach 
and was walking briskly in the direction of the shrine. 

Still the sea-fog hung heavily over the coast, and 
instinct guided him rather than sight to the cliff where 
the iron image stood, sheltered from fierce gales by a 
manufactured cavity. He knew he had reached the 
spot, for he could faintly trace the well-remembered 


344 


MARY 


hollow, but the face he traveled from England to see 
lay veiled behind overshadowing vapor. 

Suddenly the artist, standing within reach of the iron 
image, felt cheated and unnerved. The words he had 
spoken lightly enough to Josephine returned with in- 
creased significance. Was it possible that Ville de Marie 
hid her face to refuse them greeting? He drew a step 
nearer, feeling with his hands in the open hollow where 
the figure stood. Yes, she was there, clammy with the 
clinging damp that turned her metal form to piercing 
cold. He drew his fingers from the crowned head to the 
foot of a sculptured gown, hung with ropes of beads 
falling from the shoulders. Adoring worshipers had 
brought many a garish necklace to their “Dame des Ver- 
tus,” the hard strings of cheap jewelry were twisted and 
twined together in rusty union. 

Arrow measured the length of the iron Madonna 
roughly from his knee to his thigh, making a mental 
calculation and thinking of his canvas. He fancied 
the fog grew denser as he touched the chill form, while 
the damp pierced his garments, reaching his very bones. 
He shivered and drew back, standing in stricken silence, 
his mind enslaved by fantasy, his soul accepting the 
gloom with resignation and a certain relish now. 

It was good after the strain of the journey to be quite 
alone, able to dream undisturbed of the picture at home 
and its great meaning. His sense of desolation was 
made complete by that white, cadaverous vapor from a 
shrouded sea. A mere local mist, after all, one that 
might at any moment rise and dissipate depression, but 
weird, awe-inspiring, sad as a child’s funeral pall. 

Gradually, through the isolation of this filmy sub- 
stance, the iron image took a faint outline. Arrow 
watched its apparent materialization from nothingness, 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


345 


with the eye of one accustomed to studying atmospheric 
effects. She was certainly emerging to view, that un- 
lovely yet beloved travesty of woman. First he could 
trace the outline of her crown, three spikes rising from 
a broad band on the brow ; then the hands, placed palm 
to palm against her breast in prayerful attitude, a gir- 
dle at her waist, a veil behind her head. As the heavy, 
unrefined face revealed its graceless features, the lips 
appeared to smile cynically. The man whose genius 
could create rare, delicate, elevating beauty, in which the 
soul shone forth with voice and rapturous meaning, felt 
as if his wish to see the iron image especially invoked her 
shadowy presence. 

Once more he gave his fanciful brain full play, dwell- 
ing in thought upon an influence born of purity and 
love, the strong human influence of the Virgin, raising 
her fallen sex to a splendid pinnacle, lifting womanhood 
from the degradation of Eve. How had such a sweet, 
suffering, unassuming nature ever become debased by 
such gross caricature? Yet he did not grudge her that 
throne by the sea as he heard the waves whispering 
homage. He remembered how he used to think the 
Boulogne fishing-boats, bearing on their mast-vanes our 
Lady of Boulogne, were especially blessed. He recalled 
the large fishing fleets with their oft-repeated names: 
Notre Dame de Grace, Notre Dame des Miracles, Vlm- 
maculee Conception , La Toute Belle sans Tache , 
UEtoile de la Mer, UEtoile du Matin, La Sainte 
Famille, St. Joseph. He loved the appealing music of 
the words, he delighted in the vast fund of legend with 
which his mind was stored. He could travel back in 
imagination and see England as she was, when her crews 
also visited their favorite sanctuaries. 

.With lingering delight he dwelt upon the years of 


346 


MARY 


study given to Catholic devotion, merely from curious 
interest and poetical impulse, the impulse which once 
made the tolling of the Angelus of Rutherwyke dear to 
his heart and pleasing to his ear. But now his inclina- 
tion to dwell on all the store of history so diligently har- 
bored rose from something more than interest, some- 
thing deeper than curiosity, a firmer basis than poetical 
impulse. He heard in fancy the voice of Mary Aquila 
ringing in his ears, speaking again in pained accents of 
a maiden living in humble seclusion, a wife seeking no 
queenship, a disembodied spirit weighed down by the 
prayers of suffering humanity. 

A soft wind came stealing from the sea, dispelling the 
wall of fog, bringing the shrine into clear relief, baring 
its trappings to the light of day. Within the sheltered 
alcove the cliff was painted brilliant blue, while pinned 
to a large blackboard prayer cards and written messages 
rotted on soft, moldy paper. Arrow’s long sight could 
read many of the words distinctly, and as he followed 
them with his eyes his lips spoke the sentences aloud : 

“Come to Mary, all you who are laden with works, 
and weary beneath the weight of your sins, and she will 
alleviate you.” 

“Holy Mother, intercede for us to the Lord God. 
Thou who abidest with the saints, full of grace and vir- 
tue, loose the bonds of sinners, set us free.” 

“Oh! Evening Star of purity and light, watch thy 
children on sea and shore with eyes of love and heart of 
pity; protect, reward, enrich them with the full joys of 
the spirit, and answer those who call upon thy name.” 

Arrow read no more. He closed his eyes that he 
might not see the ungainly form and thick, coarse lips 
of the iron image, brown with rust. He saw instead the 
pictured face in his studio at home, the sacred, pure 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


347 


face of the God-chosen Maid to whom Gabriel brought a 
message of miraculous motherhood. No wonder that 
she was clean from every sin, hallowed, sanctified, re- 
membered throughout all ages ; no wonder the world 
had built round her name that wall of defense, that 
mystical edifice, clinging to a great and reverent injus- 
tice. Was she not exquisite? was she not true? did she 
not reign in their hearts with all the witchcraft of 
undying charm ? 

As this swift current of imagination flooded his brain 
he was conscious of another visitor standing behind him, 
facing the shrine. 

He turned aside, fearing his presence might hinder 
some pilgrim fired with devotional enthusiasm. As he 
glanced across his shoulder, his eyes fell on Mary 
Aquila. She was not looking at the shrine in the cliff, 
with its dark, weather-beaten statue ; she looked instead 
at Arrow. Her face wore the same expression as his 
canvas at Rutherwyke, spoke the same lesson, framed 
the same plea. She appeared to the man mysterious as 
the changing ocean of light and shadow, with its white 
foam and gorgeous azure, its opal, gray or evening sil- 
ver. She possessed the nameless quality of the sea, ruled 
alone by mighty forces, directed by invisible elements. 

“Come away,” she said, stretching out her hand and 
touching him lightly on the shoulder. 

The two words sounded like the double note of a bell 
rung from some distant church spire and heard across 
space — soft, veiled, beseeching. The sudden request 
filled him with surprise. He discerned a depth of mean- 
ing in the eager, emphatic voice. 

“Why?” he asked. “Why?” 

It was a sharp, persistent why, echoed with quick 
repetition. 


348 


MARY 


She shivered and could give no answer, only the place 
appeared to oppress her terribly. 

“See,” he continued, “the mist is floating away ; there 
will be no more rain.” 

He pointed to the lifting fog across the water taking 
strange shapes like spirit forms in winged flight. 

Certainly, as she fixed those vvonderful eyes upon him, 
she was far more fragile and puzzling than in past days. 
He wanted to touch her cloak to make sure it was real, 
but she drew back, and he could not do so without at- 
tracting notice. She looked taller, more transparent ; he 
fancied the mist hovered about her head, hanging veil- 
like from the smooth, thick hair. 

“You are doing no good here now,” she whispered 
faintly. “The journey was long, your brain is weary, 
you are laying yourself open to every influence that is 
sinister and malign. Later, when the skies clear, you 
will make the needful sketches and then go back quickly 
— quickly to Rutherwyke.” 

He fancied he saw a glistening tear on the long 
lashes. He certainly felt in every fiber of his being the 
echo of some racking pain, whether mental or physical 
he could not discover. He knew undoubtedly that Mary 
suffered, an unaccountable ill caught her in unseen 
chains, torturing each nerve, straining her rich fund of 
endurance. 

“You are not happy here,” he said, rushing straight 
to the point. “Perhaps the place has sad memories for 
you, and you ought not to have come.” 

She smiled faintly, and once again his imagination 
played tricks with Mary’s smile, which became part of 
the pale shroud enveloping the beach, drifting away like 
the wandering fog to those sharp rocks beyond. 
Emerging from the shallow water, their twisted forms 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


349 


suggested the dead rising from a watery tomb. Each 
rock had a separate personality. Arrow pictured them 
as gruesome corpses of the sea, answering the call of 
resurrection. 

“Yes, Ville de Marie holds memories, but I did right 
to come,” murmured Mary softly. 

The final words were spoken in a key so decisive they 
left no room for doubt. One of Mary’s strangest atti- 
tudes lay in her humble self-effacement, combined with 
complete assurance. She never wavered in a decision 
nor regretted any action. She appeared guided by in- 
visible hands, driven by impulse — the servant of some 
great, incomprehensible power. Arrow realized this 
more acutely every day. The fact came home to him 
with the force of absolute conviction. No longer a mere 
fancy, it joined the realms of actuality, carrying him 
into deep under-currents, full of meaning, replete with 
inspiration, born of Mary’s will. 

He wanted to talk of those Ville de Marie memories, 
but, like Josephine, he felt his tongue mysteriously tied. 
He dared not question Miss Aquila, who now appeared 
as a strong magnet drawing him away from the shrine. 

Even before he decided to accept her advice he found 
himself hurrying, as if compelled, in the direction of the 
•pension. Mary walked at his side, but her light foot- 
steps made no sound, and again the strange thought 
returned that somehow she looked different to the woman 
who tended the flowers in the Rutherwyke garden. Her 
dignity shone forth with a new magnificence. The 
sensation described by Josephine of inward dread for 
the first time found its echo in Arrow’s heart. 

“You must not be surprised at anything that hap- 
pens,” whispered his guest’s voice, and for a moment 
the man thought it must be some phantom warning. 


350 


MARY 


wafted to him on the gentle breeze, lifting that veil 
of white mist from the face of the waters. “There are 
periods which come to all, when their quiet, tranquil days 
break into storm, when action marches and the mind is 
brought to understand the wonders of an unseen world. 
These are the hours of the waking soul. Through half 
a lifetime, perhaps, its spirit sleeps, tranquil and undis- 
turbed, chained to earth by material fetters, then the 
call comes and the eyelids open.” 

Arrow smiled, but not of his own free will. The 
smile apparently arrived unbidden in answer to her 
words. It seemed part of the emancipation of a dor- 
mant soul, crushed by mundane existence. He won- 
dered involuntarily if Mary’s voice already called it 
from the slumber of long .years. 

“How can I promise not to be surprised?” he asked. 
“Don’t you know from the first moment I met you I 
have never ceased to feel puzzled by your every word 
and action? You have been the marvel of my exist- 
ence. I cannot but wonder, puzzle and seek — yes, seek 
— always to know you better, to solve why you are here, 
what you would do. Surely you are clever enough to 
know the post you hold at Rutherwyke, the situation of 
gardener, is unworthy of one so beautiful, talented, 
loved and admired. You could have stayed with Lady 
Constance for life. She longed to treat you as a sister, 
to make much of you, to take you into her world ; but 
you refused. She figuratively showed you all the king- 
doms of the earth lying at your feet, and you turned, 
instead, to the lowly path, you came to work in our 
garden ” 

He broke off suddenly, the words half choked him, 
but Mary repeated them quickly with a force and mean- 
ing he had not expected from her lips. 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 351 

“Yes,” she said, “to work in your garden, and there 
was work to do, work as yet unfinished.” 

He put his hand to his forehead, feeling the throbbing 
of his temples. He guessed her retort held some deep 
significance. 

“Do you remember,” he whispered, “the first day I 
saw you with the passion flowers, the day we spoke of 
the Gabriel bell, the day on which I conceived the soul 
and body of my picture? You were sent for the pur- 
pose ; I believe it was ordained by fate. You came to me 
that my brush might not only create a thing of beauty 
to please the senses, you meant to breathe life into that 
dead canvas, to give it voice — to plant a lesson in a 
silent work. For this you tarried, for this you slaved, 
for this you gave your time, your beauty, your incom- 
parable self.” 

He paused, standing beneath the shadow of the cliff, 
gazing at Mary with searching eyes and livid features, 
with hands clenched, breast heaving, head thrown back. 

She made no comment on his words, threw no light 
upon the mystery of her presence, instead she spoke of 
the picture, spoke as an oracle might, with a sphinx- 
like expression on the face usually so tender, with an 
almost maternal love for those about her. 

“My work in that direction is over,” she said. “I 
have only to think of the garden now. But in case I 
should no longer be with you, remember the picture is 
not for England alone; it is for the whole world.” 

He stared at her with questioning eyes. 

“How do you mean ?” he asked. “Tell me your wishes, 
give me your ideas. Sometimes I think the picture is 
more yours than mine. The lesson that central figure 
breathes to man is spoken by your eyes, which plead 
with a force greater than any human tongue. You have 


352 


MARY 


a right in the decision of its future. I dedicate every 
stroke of work in it, every high ambition, to you — and 
you alone.” 

She hardly seemed to hear the words, evidently her 
mind was wrapt in thought. He waited for her to 
speak, burning with impatience, straining his ears to 
catch her faintest whisper. 

“Simply call the canvas ‘Mary , 5 ” she proclaimed 
with decision. “No startling or lengthy name to attract 
the public ear, just the one word — Mary. Do not send 
it to crowded galleries ; it shall not appear at the Acad- 
emy. First let it be exhibited in London quite alone, 
free of charge for a time, that all may see, afterward 
for money, a portion of which share with the poor. 
Every one who views this. Mary must be given a paper 
with a printed explanation of the canvas, that no man, 
woman or child can mistake what your pictured Ma- 
donna would say. Exhibit the work later in every 
European capital, with the same words of explanation, 
which I will write to-night. Never forget this picture is 
a voice to be given to the world and should be held apart 
from all your other works. Will you promise to carry 
out my wish? Will you strive your hardest not to 
fail me ? 55 

Suddenly her voice softened to deep pleading. Arrow 
could trace in it the tears of a great agony. She was 
walking toward the porch where Madame Tellier sat 
behind her little bureau window, knitting peacefully. 

Arrow felt stunned, bewildered. He lost his hold 
upon earth, all sense of time and place escaped him. He 
moved like one in a dream, enslaved by the mysticism of 
an unearthly influence. 

“I promise,” he said convulsively ; “I promise.” 

Already they had reached the entrance of the pension. 


WHICH IS THE GATE? 


353 


“Now,” said Mary, “go upstairs and rest.” 

Once more the mother-note sounded in her voice, 
sweetly low, tenderly commanding. She turned to leave 
him, not waiting for his reply. 

He put out his hand to detain her, he touched the 
long cloak, but it slipped through his fingers like a cloud. 

“Where are you going?” he asked eagerly. 

He met the full radiance of her eyes, and winced as if 
he faced the sun. 

“Back to the iron image,” she answered, and her 
words held no compromise or invitation. 

Arrow stood rooted to the spot, his blood freezing in 
his veins. 

“Alone?” he queried. 

“Yes, alone.” 

He watched the blue figure out of sight, then turned 
into the pension , not daring to follow Mary against her 
will. Madame Tellier rose and addressed him, but he 
passed her without a word, utterly ignoring her remark, 
unable to muster sufficient breath to speak. 

Madame Tellier’s eyes followed him with open curi- 
osity. 

“He looks as if he had seen a vision,” she told herself. 
“It is often so at Ville de Marie. Notre Dame des 
Vertus has made converts in the past, why not again — 
why not again?” 

Then bending low in silent prayer, she added with 
reverent devotion : 

“Maybe he has called on our Lady’s name, and she, 
which is the gate, has opened to his call.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


WHERE THE TREE FALLS 

S CARCELY a week had passed since the Penreaths 
left Rutherwyke and the threatened storm was 
sweeping over England with a violence that carried de- 
struction in its train. Sometimes Sam thought the fierce 
winds wailed for Mary. They had come surely to echo 
the sorrow in his baby heart. Then his mind changed, 
and the boisterous gale was a high-spirited playfellow, 
affording unlimited amusement. He would race the scat- 
tering twigs from fallen branches and revel in chimney- 
pot ruins or climb the wrecked limbs of trees when the 
first fury of the hurricane abated. His golden curls 
danced to the tune of the gale, and he asked always — 
always to go to the garden he loved, that he might 
amuse himself there alone with the little toy barrow, 
kept in the potting shed by Vines’ permission. 

Mrs. Benn declared it was terrible to see the flowers so 
battered and the leaves blowing down already, enough 
to break Miss Mary’s heart, she as always wanted to 
have things tidy. Then Sam replied with his winning 
infantile smile : “He would make everything all right ; 
he was going to put the place straight and help the 
men.” 

The gardeners were entertained by his innocent at- 
tempts at imitation, and chiefly because Mary loved him, 
854 


WHERE THE TREE FALLS 355 

they never found Sam in the way or spoke an unkind 
word. 

Mrs. Benn was glad enough for the child to stay out 
in the open air, enjoying the beautiful grounds, for 
already she busied herself making winter clothes, finding 
the solitude of the cottage not unwelcome. She had 
learned from Mary the value of a quiet mind. Her days 
were now ordered by well-thought-out methods, while 
the mere memory of the Lion’s Claw was but an evil 
dream of long ago. 

As usual, Sam, despite the roughness of the weather, 
resorted to Rutherwyke Place to lend his small arms in 
willing service, fondly imagining he worked for Mary. 
The garden looked strangely empty and desolate, with 
waving trees like animated giants, murmuring songs of 
wrath. The wind, rushing through the leaves, sounded 
strangely similar to the roar of the sea, and the inky 
skies were undoubtedly working up for thunder. Sam 
ran first to the White Cottage and gazed upon its drawn 
blinds and locked doors. The sight of the vacant dwell- 
ing brought hot tears to his eyes. Yesterday his mother 
had aired the rooms thoroughly, but to-day she decided 
not to open so much as a chink, since the wind blew 
everything about. He turned away, unable to look on 
the home Mary had deserted. As he ran toward the 
Monk’s Walk the first crash of thunder pealed out over- 
head. Sam put up tiny hands to little pink ears with a 
sharp cry. Then the lightning flashed again across the 
garden and the rain came beating down, first in long, 
straight strands, then in hard hailstones that leaped 
upon the gravel and rolled into melting heaps of white 
mystery. 

Sam ran to the shelter of protecting trees, selecting a 
large horse chestnut which offered the gloom of a vast 


356 


MARY 


shade. There, at least, he could hide his face against the 
great gnarled trunk and weep out his terror unseen. 
*$&&***& 

Hettie Vines stood at her window. 

“My word,” she cried, “it’s enough to bring down 
every tree in Rutherwyke! You mark what I say, 
Matthew, there will be a deal of damage done. What a 
mercy you just got back in time. You could do no good 
up at the garden in this storm, and I should have felt 
uneasy.” 

The twins were whimpering with fear, hiding under 
the parlor table, while Vines knelt on the floor, trying 
to comfort their distress. 

“It’s all right, Joey,” he said, “just lug that fat 
brother of yours out by the foot, and dad will give you 
both a ride on his knees.” 

This cheerful prospect was about to be put into prac- 
tice when a loud, persistent knocking at the door startled 
the inmates. Hettie flew to lift the latch, while Matthew 
sprang to his feet. On the threshold stood Mrs. Benn, 
pale and trembling, with rivers of water dripping from 
a small black cape over her shoulders. It had been 
impossible to hold up an umbrella in the fury of the 
storm, and her skirt, splashed with mud, hung in satu- 
rated folds to her shaking limbs. 

“The boy,” she gasped, “my Sam, he’s up at the 
garden ; he’s there all alone, him as near dies of fright at 
a bit o’ summer lightning. Maybe he will get under the 
trees, and the Lord knows that’s dangerous enough. I 
thought perhaps Mr. Vines would come with me and help 
find him. It’s mighty rough, but for the sake of the 
child ” 

Her words broke off under a chilling gaze from Het- 
tie’s small light eyes. 


WHERE THE TREE FALLS 


857 


“It isn’t fit for a dog to be out,” declared Mrs. Vines 
deliberately, “and yet you ask my husband to go and 
play nursemaid to your boy. If Sam is abroad such 
weather it’s your own fault for not keeping an eye on 
the clouds. It was easy enough to see the storm 
coming.” 

Mrs. Benn began to weep into a large colored hand- 
kerchief. 

“I was that took up with me needle I never thought 
to look out,” she sobbed, “till I heard the thunder and 
saw the lightning flashing through my window. He’s 
my only one, and if aught happened to him — well, there’s 
no saying what would become of me. As to Miss Aquila, 
she set such store by the boy, I couldn’t face her if he 
came to harm.” 

Already Matthew had seized his cap and was gently 
pushing Hettie to one side. 

“You’re never going?” she gasped, reading the an- 
swer to her question in the man’s determined expression. 

He repeated Mrs. Benn’s plea in a tone which left no 
room for argument. “For the sake of the child,” he 
whispered, and the hand on Hettie’s shoulder tightened 
to an affectionate little squeeze. She fancied his eyes 
betrayed a truer interpretation of the words. 

“He meant Tor the sake of Miss Aquila,’ ” she mut- 
tered to herself as she watched Matthew vanishing 
through torrents of rain with the drenched and shiver- 
ing Mrs. Benn. 

****•#*#* 

The storm still raged and Vines had not returned. 
It seemed an interminable age to Hettie since he hurried 
away in search of Sam. She made no attempt to com- 
fort the twins with words of consolation, but at each 
fresh howl scolded them harshly, while her body shook 


358 


MARY 


from head to foot with nervous physical discomfort. 
The thunder jarred terribly upon her highly strung 
temperament. Her forehead pricked as if a thousand 
needles played on the sensitive skin, piercing to her 
brain cells. She moved up and down the room, ill at 
ease, quick to note a gradual fading away of the heav- 
ens’ artillery and the lessening of raindrops beating mo- 
notonously upon the windows. Only the wind’s wild roar 
rose higher and higher, rattling doors, blowing soot 
down the kitchen chimney and filling the house with vol- 
umes of smoke. She wanted to prepare a meal, but 
found cooking impossible under present conditions. She 
gazed in despair at the smothered embers, wondering 
what could be done to get over the difficulty. She knelt 
down to rake away the soot and lay fresh wood, with 
eyes smarting from the smoke, when once again that 
same persistent knocking sounded on her ears. 

“Mrs. Benn back again,” muttered Hettie, rising. 
“Her fist is enough to break the door in, but I suppose 
the poor creature must be terribly wet and cold, and 
doesn’t care to be kept waiting.” 

Running to the door, she opened it eagerly, anxious to 
hear the result of the pilgrimage. There stood Sam 
and his mother, the child clinging to the rain-drenched 
skirts, the woman shaking violently as if her limbs were 
giving way, her lips unable to frame the words she 
struggled to utter. 

“Good gracious, Mrs. Benn, what’s up with you? 
Surely you’ve got ’im safe enough? Sam don’t look any 
the worse.” 

Suddenly the black-gowned figure straightened to its 
full height, the veins appeared to swell above Mrs. 
Benn’s dark collar band, she wrung her hands as if in 
agony. 


WHERE THE TREE FALLS 


359 


“Sam,” she gasped — “Sam was under the tree. Mr. 
Vines — he — he called to him. He ran forward, quicker 
than I could run, you know, and then there was a crash 
— a bough fell ” 

Hettie sprang suddenly forward, clutching Mrs. Benn 
by the shoulder, her face blanching under colorless 
strands of fair hair, while her eyes started from her 
head like a hunted animal’s beneath the j aws of pursuing 
hounds. 

“It fell — it fell — on Matthew!” she shrieked, shaking 
Mrs. Benn’s thin form with such violence that her brain 
reeled and her bonnet fell backward on her neck. “Oh! 
you cursed woman, you took him there — you took him 
to his death ” 

“No, no, no,” gasped Mrs. Benn, with chattering 
teeth. 

Hettie paused, and letting go her hold, fell against 
the wall. 

“Not dead. Oh! God, not dead,” she wailed hysteri- 
cally, while Sam’s mother reassured her as best she 
could. 

“No, dearie, but a bit hurt, you see — a bit hurt. If 
we hadn’t been there to run for help, he might have laid 
for hours, poor fellow; but the men came at once and 
got ’im out. They are bringing ’im on a shutter, and 
Mr. Porterton, who heard the crash, has run for a doc- 
tor. Now, don’t take on” (as Hettie began beating the 
wall with frenzied hands), “taking on never helped a 
body yet in trouble.” 

With a sweep of her arm Hettie pushed Mrs. Benn on 
one side and rushed into the road. 

“Which way are they coming?” she demanded fiercely, 
and her face looked so wild that Sam burst into tears at 
the petrifying sight. 


360 


MARY 


“Down the drive to the south gates,” answered Mrs. 
Benn, vainly trying to hold her back. But the feeble, 
protesting hands were as straw before Hettie’s muscles, 
suddenly strengthened by frenzied terror. She shook 
herself free from the clinging woman and with shrill 
cries and heart-breaking sobs started off bareheaded in 
the direction of the Rutherwyke grounds. 

Hettie fancied she first saw the little procession com- 
ing toward her through a mist of blood. The under- 
gardeners bore him and most of the house servants fol- 
lowed, with faces of keen anxiety, blanching whiter as 
they turned to the victim’s wife in sympathy and com- 
miseration. 

Stretched on a shutter, Matthew lay insensible, look- 
ing like death, save for his faint breathing. With ex- 
traordinary violence Hettie pushed through the women 
who tried to keep her back. But for their supporting 
arms she would have fallen forward prostrate on her 
husband’s injured body. 

Instead they held her as she stood looking down upon 
him with agonized eyes, while unrestrained screams 
broke from her lips, ringing through Rutherwyke in 
frenzied despair. 

The men bearing their burden walked on toward 
Vines’ home, leaving the women to grapple with Hettie, 
their blood curdled by her nerve-shattering grief. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Benn flew upstairs to prepare a bed, 
whispering to Sam to take the twins out into the back 
yard until she called them in. They would be glad 
enough to play there now the rain no longer fell. 

Porterton arrived first with the doctor, and together 
they went to meet the men on their slow march. 

Hettie, silent at last, passed through the south gates, 
stupefied, dazed and utterly exhausted. To shriek or 


WHERE THE TREE FALLS 361 

scream would have proved a physical impossibility after 
that first ungovernable outburst. Only she walked like 
an old woman, bowed down by her weight of woe. 

As they bore Matthew into the house Sam, true to his 
instructions, kept the four-year-old children well out of 
sight. 

“Why have you been crying?” asked Joey, ever curi- 
ous for information, his sharp eyes noting the trace of 
recent tears. 

Sam wiped his cheeks vigorously. 

“I saw a man killed,” he replied, believing the words 
were true. 

“What man?” asked the baby voices in chorus. 

Sam wrinkled his brow in thought. 

“Well, they wouldn’t let me look,” he said, “but I 
think it was your father.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE EAST LETTER 

H ETTIE moved away from Matthew’s bed and fol- 
lowed the doctor downstairs. Her eyes were 
weary from an all-night vigil, her face appeared to have 
shrunk to infinitesimal proportions ; she looked on the 
verge of a nervous breakdown. 

“Is he better this morning?” she asked with the eager- 
ness of one who (knowing the truth) feigns to believe 
it false, fiercely rebelling against reality. 

The medical man shook his head, looking with sym- 
pathy upon his trembling questioner. 

“You must prepare yourself for the worst, Mrs. 
Vines,” he said candidly. “The crushing blow your 
husband received yesterday unfortunately ruptured an 
internal organ. I cannot hold out the smallest hope of 
his recovery. He might last a couple of days, he might 
die within a few hours.” 

She put up her hands to her head and groaned. 
“Try,” continued the doctor, “to make his end as 
quiet and peaceful as possible. Control your grief; it 
is all you can do for him now. I understand Mr. Oliver 
Penreath has been telegraphed for, and is coming from 
London by the first possible train. If he caught the 
early express, he should be here in a few minutes. It 
might be advisable to let him go to the room alone. I 
would rather only one person saw the patient at a time ; 
862 


THE LAST LETTER 


363 


a mind so weakened is easily confused. I will look in 
again before lunch. Muster all your courage, my poor 
woman, and try to show your husband a bright face.” 

Hettie’s features were rigid as stone, save for a slight 
twitching at the corner of her lips. She nodded, swal- 
lowed hard and opened the outer door for the doctor, 
who hurried to his carriage with head slightly bent. 

A little flock of anxious neighbors waited for the 
latest report. Hettie vouchsafed no word, she just made 
a gesture which conveyed the hopelessness of the case 
and vanished back into the silent house. 

They turned away with tear-dimmed eyes and aching 
hearts. 

“The parish nurse told me it was no good expecting 
him to recover,” said Mrs. Cray, foremost among the 
group. “It’s a vital organ he’s ruptured under that 
dreadful tree. Seems like being stricken down by the 
hand of God, it do! She’ll take this hard, will poor 
Hettie. She was always telling with such pride of the 
work he did at Rutherwyke Place, and how some day, for 
sure, he would be made head gardener, with her living up 
at the White Cottage. Now that very garden has 
proved the death of him.” 

The speaker stepped aside to let Oliver Penreath pass. 
He was walking from the station with quick strides and 
only just acknowledged the “good-morning, sir,” from 
several voices. 

“Of course, he has come down special,” they said, 
watching hjm curiously till he reached Vines’ door. 
“Nice news he’ll have to send to his pa and ma out on 
their holiday abroad !” 

Mrs. Benn, who was helping Hettie with the house- 
work, let Oliver in. 

“Mrs. Vines,” she said, “had seen him coming, and 


364 


MARY 


was that upset, she asked if he would kindly go to Mat- 
thew alone while she washed and got a bit straight. 
You see, sir,” explained the woman, “that poor creature 
sat up all night just in the clothes she was wearing yes- 
terday, and she thought she would take this opportunity 
of tidying herself while you were in the sick room. The 
doctor, too, wanted one to go up at a time.” 

Oliver asked a few details, then softly mounted the 
stairs. He opened the door without a sound and entered 
on tiptoe. The blinds were partially drawn, and already 
it seemed like a chamber of death. He realized as he 
moved to the bed that even in a sick room the world in- 
trudes, remembering a quotation recently heard: “No 
disinfecting sheet can shut out the microbes of rest- 
lessness.” 

As Matthew perceived the newcomer, he tried to smile 
faintly, an effort so infinitely pathetic that it brought 
a lump to Oliver’s throat. He sat down and took Vines’ 
hand tenderly, realizing the sufferer was in a state of 
collapse and that words were unnecessary, since sym- 
pathy spoke through the familiar contact of united 
hands. 

Though the light was dim, he easily discerned the 
ghastly pallor of Matthew’s face and saw the clammy 
perspiration standing in cold drops upon his forehead. 

Presently Oliver whispered: 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” 

The simple words, so full of sincerity, roused the 
dying man from a stupor. With an effcjrt he pulled 
himself together, and a feverish light leaped to the 
sunken eyes, which glittered with a strange, glassy 
stare. 

“Hettie is not here,” Matthew whispered in a strained, 
eager tone. 


THE LAST LETTER 


365 


“No. Shall I fetch her?” 

Feebly the sufferer shook his head, and Oliver bent 
down to catch the next words. They were very decisive. 

“Open the desk on the right of the window, bring me 
an envelope and sheet of paper. See if you can find some 
sealing wax.” 

Oliver rose quickly, obeying the instructions, as 
Vines’ eyes followed him in hungering anxiety. 

“I will write anything you like to dictate,” said his 
visitor in quiet, soothing tones. 

Vines gave a little groan. 

“No,” he muttered, “no, if I have strength — I must 
write myself.” 

“Impossible !” 

The word broke involuntarily from Oliver, regretted 
as soon as spoken. 

Perhaps Vines did not realize his serious condition, 
perhaps he hoped to recover. 

But the now excited man paid little heed to the retort, 
giving his orders in sharp, pain-fraught accents. 

“Prop me up, find a pencil, give me the Bible to 
write on.” 

Oliver hesitated. His intense reverence for the holy 
book made its use as a desk appear sacrilegious, even 
at such a time. Then, seeing no other volume or writing 
board, he reluctantly obeyed the request. 

“It’s to help me,” whispered Vines, “to help me in 
what I’ve got to say to Miss Mary.” 

Oliver’s heart beat faster. He placed the pencil in 
the man’s shaking hand and drew back that he might not 
see the written words. 

As he waited, Oliver conjured up that pure, sweet 
face, wishing with all his heart she could be there by the 


366 MARY 

bedside, ministering to the soul on the dark boundary of 
death. 

Then he looked at Vines. Sudden amazing strength 
seemed miraculously imparted. The shattered frame 
had power to achieve a task which weakness ever shuns, 
the writing of a long, closely worded letter. From brow 
to chin the livid face became bathed in perspiration. 
Vines was breathing now as a runner who falls exhausted 
at the goal, his mouth open, his eyes bloodshot, his pant- 
ing audible and quick. Still he wrote with uncanny 
speed, as if the silent sentences raced his unknown foe. 
Thus he spoke to Mary from the very brink of the 
grave, his last supreme effort was for her. The enemy 
Death stood over his hand as it moved across the paper, 
yet for a moment the writer forgot fatigue and pain in 
the excitement of putting down a vital message that 
must be given before it was too late. 

As Vines signed the document, he fell back, utterly 
prostrated, gasping in a voice of intense exhaustion: 

“Seal and address to Miss Aquila — for the love of 
God — to be given after my death. Hettie not to know.” 
Then in a louder voice, raising his hands with a fruit- 
less attempt to emphasize the words by gesture, he cried 
distractedly: “Hettie not to know.” 

Oliver bent over him, taking the paper reverently* 
fastening down this secret missive before Matthew’s 
eyes and carefully sealing it with a scrap of wax found 
in the dusty desk. 

“I promise to fulfil your wishes,” he whispered ten- 
derly. “The letter shall go, and no one will be told. 
You can rely absolutely on my word.” 

Vines tried to thank him, but was overcome by intense 
drowsiness. Presently he said faintly: “Miss Mary will 
know what to do, she’ll know.” Then even more feebly 


THE LAST LETTER 367 

he murmured “forgive,” while his lips quivered, growing 
strangely blue. 

Oliver moved to the door, calling in a low but pene- 
trating voice: “Mrs. Vines.” 

Already he had carefully hidden the letter in the 
pocket next his heart. 

Hettie came running at the sound of her name. She 
flew to the bed and fell on her knees. Oliver followed 
and knelt down beside her. 

“He is unconscious?” she whispered. 

“Yes.” 

“He will never speak again,” she moaned, “never — 
never — never.” 

Hettie buried her face in the coverlet, and her frame 
shook with sobs. 

Matthew’s breath grew fainter each moment; he 
seemed like a sleeping child. 

“Did he say a last word?” she asked tremulously. 

The question came so unexpectedly that for a mo- 
ment Oliver was nonplussed. 

Then he surmounted the difficulty with sudden in- 
spiration : 

“Your husband spoke your name. I heard him say 
‘Hettie’ twice.” 

The statement was true, yet Oliver felt he had lent 
himself to deception. 

An expression of vague satisfaction crossed the wife’s 
face, marred and almost unrecognizable by the disfigur- 
ing hand of grief. 

“He said Hettie twice,” she repeated, stifling a sob. 
“Then his last thoughts were for me.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 

M ARY made no further allusion to the iron image or 
the picture at Rutherwyke. She gave the prom- 
ised paper to Arrow, in which she had penned the ex- 
planation of his great work, without a word. 

Not until he was alone did he dare trust himself to 
read the contents. He felt convinced the dreaded sepa- 
ration was near at hand, he knew instinctively this in- 
comprehensible woman would soon drift out of their 
lives. The document appeared to the artist’s excited 
brain like a living utterance spoken in clear, ringing 
tones. In his eyes the words were illuminated by golden 
light, much as the name “Mary” stood out, unmarred 
by scorching flames, from Constance Eastlake’s letter, 
when first she suggested sending Miss Aquila to Ruther- 
wyke. He refrained from reading the picture’s explana- 
tion to Josephine, for a while he wished to keep this 
delicate yet forceful composition entirely to himself. It 
expressed the very soul of his canvas, speaking directly 
to the heart of the simple, as well as appealing to 
learned minds. It was written - with biblical terseness 
and biblical inspiration. It laid a wealth of meaning 
before the reader in few but graphic phrases, drawing 
aside a veil, letting in the pure, dazzling light of under- 
standing. 

When he thanked Mary, she raised a protesting hand, 
368 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 


S6d 


while her eyes entreated silence. He guessed her simple, 
retiring nature dreaded the warm praises he would like 
to have uttered, and in respect to her wishes he sealed 
his lips. 

Since that first foggy day of arrival Mary conspicu- 
ously avoided the shrine of Ville de Marie. While Arrow 
sketched its every detail, she walked with Josephine, 
making every possible excuse to avoid passing the spot 
so hallowed in the eyes of the French peasantry. If 
Mrs. Penreath insisted, anxious to view her husband’s 
progress, Mary would leave her, returning to the pen- 
sion by another route. 

“Do you so dislike the iron image?” asked her hostess 
curiously on one of these occasions. 

Mary paused before replying, and Josephine, recall- 
ing the fact of a previous visit, wondered if this spot 
held some sad associations. 

At last the answer came in lowered accents. 

“I shall go there once again before I leave, and that 
will be enough. The place is full — so full of pain.” 

Her listener, quite unable to understand, tactfully 
lapsed into silence. 

These swiftly passing days were very dear to Jose- 
phine, despite the ominous fact that already the sea 
worked up for storm. White breakers were visible as 
far as eye could reach, and news from England proved 
anything but reassuring. 

To Josephine especially Mary gave the full benefit of 
her society during these leisure hours. The artist’s 
wife had seldom appeared so happy and contented as 
during that quiet week at Ville de Marie. She felt as 
though Mary were teaching her how to live, guiding her 
step by step to greater strength as a loving mother 
shows her child the way to walk. Yet Mary was a young 


370 


MARY 


and beautiful woman, while her pupil had weathered the 
storms of life, leaving youth, with its numerous illusions, 
behind. 

“You really should think more of yourself,” she told 
Mary. “The world could hold so much that is dazzling 
for you. I am growing old, yet I figuratively sit at 
your feet and learn. I am trying to rise above the little 
petty jars of earth, to share your wider view, to expand 
my sympathies and take into my heart all the great 
crowd of sufferers who faint by the way. But then I 
have had my days of pleasure, but you are still upon 
life’s threshold. You possess the precious boon of 
youth, rich and ripe with joys that never return.” 

A wondering expression stole over Mary’s face, the 
look of one who sees back through long years of experi- 
ence. Her eyes held in their depths the history of count- 
less ages ; they were utterly inexplicable. 

“I have joys of which I never speak,” she said, “and 
they are sufficient for me.” 

She was standing alone by Josephine on the pension 
balcony. Morning sunlight streamed in floods of silver 
over mighty breakers dashing their weight of foam in 
restless torment upon a glistening beach. 

The two women were waiting for the arrival of letters 
from England, then they intended taking a stroll before 
dejeuner , despite the rising wind, which made walking 
difficult. 

“We might go inland,” Josephine had suggested, 
“avoiding the path by the cliff. We shall be blown off 
our feet unless we find a sheltered road.” 

As Mary mentioned her unknown joys, the sitting- 
room door opened and Madame Tellier herself brought 
the English post. 

The proprietress grieved daily that the beautiful 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 


371 


lady with Monsieur and Madame Penreath appeared so 
seldom in the public salon. Merely for the sake of 
feasting her eyes upon Miss Aquila, she would snatch 
the letters from the femme de chambre or perform the 
most menial service, feeling amply rewarded by a word 
from Mary’s musical voice, a look of acknowledgment 
or a passing smile. She envied those who waited upon 
the stranger. She yearned to perform some task of 
sacrifice by which she might win the undying gratitude 
of the guest who bore our Lady’s name and whose face 
was fair as a pictured Madonna. 

Josephine took up Arrow’s letters, and seeing one 
from Oliver, proceeded to scan its contents, first noting 
there was yet another in the same familiar hand. She 
wondered why Miss Aquila quickly concealed it and 
hurried away to her room. What could the boy have 
written to excuse such strange conduct? Just for a 
moment Josephine’s brow clouded, then banishing with 
horror the faintest touch of suspicion, she turned to 
the closely worded sheets, written, to her surprise, on 
Rutherwyke notepaper, and bearing the Abbotts 
Brooke postmark. 

Once alone, Mary locked her door and moved up and 
down her room with restless tread, holding the unopened 
letter between the palms of her hands. Her pale face 
looked racked and tortured with sudden pain; then she 
broke the seal, drawing forth the letter in Vines’ weak, 
uneven writing. 

The lines sloped and many of the letters were only 
partially formed; it was palpably the effort of a hand 
cramped with pain. 

“O Merciful Miss Mary” — ran the faintly traced 
words — “this will reach you after my death. Before 


sn 


MARY 


you went away I tried to own how a black hour of temp- 
tation led me to a veritable hell on earth. My wife, dis- 
satisfied with small means, craved for better living, little 
knowing her words would drive her husband to dishonor. 
I thought out a plan of ruining Monk. I meant to get 
his place. I was mad at the time — clean mad. I found 
the big account book and changed his entries. I had a 
duplicate key made to the orchid house, and the night 
that anonymous letter was posted from London I stole 
the orchids and dropped them in the river. The person 
who posted my lying accusation, for which the Lord for- 
give me, never knew he was lending his hand to treach- 
ery; he thought it was just an advertisement I wanted 
sent, unbeknown to the master. The moment the deed 
was done I hated myself and cursed the hour my heart 
listened to the tempter’s voice. Daily I went in terror 
of discovery. Then you came, and somehow I felt at 
once you guessed my secret. Now, Miss Mary, the 
garden in which I played with the devil’s tools has been 
my death. Do what you think best, but, for the love of 
God, ask them all to keep the truth from Hettie. It 
would break her heart, poor lass, and she’ll have enough 
to bear. Bless you, Miss Mary, and in mercy ask those 
I have wronged to forgive a miserable sinner. Miss 
Mary — I — I — am lost. Pray for me. 

“Matthew Vines.” 

Scarcely had she read the words than Josephine 
rapped at her door, and turning the handle fruitlessly, 
cried : 

“Mary — are you there? — are you there?” 

Her voice came in broken gasps. 

The key turned and Mary instantly admitted the 
trembling figure. 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 


373 


“Such awful news,” said Mrs. Penreath. “A bough 
from the big chestnut tree at Rutherwyke fell upon poor 
Vines and killed him. Oliver was with him when he died. 
Only think what a tragedy ! I really feel we ought to 
go back at once. Dear Oliver wrote instead of tele- 
graphing, as he thought it would be less of a shock to 
my nerves. The gale has been terrible, no end of dam- 
age done and it is really too dreadful that unfortunate 
fellow being crushed to death in our grounds!” 

She wrung her hands as the words came disjointedly 
from her lips. 

Already she was half dragging Mary to their private 
salon, where Arrow once more reread the sad intelli- 
gence. He, too, had waited for the English letters, 
joining Josephine just as Miss Aquila hurried away to 
her room. 

“It almost seems now,” he said, “as if Vines knew 
some evil fate hung over him. Do you remember the 
footsteps he used to hear? It must have been a premo- 
nition, a warning of approaching death.” 

Arrow, usually so unsuperstitious, shuddered as he 
spoke. 

Josephine hung still upon Mary’s arm as if to draw 
strength from the calm, quiet presence. 

“You had a letter, too,” she said. “I believe you felt 
that there was something wrong; you went away the 
moment you saw the envelope. Oh! Mary, how awful it 
must be for Hettie Vines. She is such an excitable, 
highly strung woman. Oliver says he knelt at her side 
as the husband passed away. No money or skill could 
have saved him; it was a fatal internal injury.” 

Arrow handed his son’s letter to Miss Aquila. To 
himself he said : “Thank God, it was not Mary !” 


374 


MARY 


She did not look at the closely written sheets, but 
turned her eyes full upon Mr. and Mrs. Penreath. 

“Yes, I have had a letter addressed to me in your 
son’s handwriting, a last letter from Vines. It contains 
a dying confession from one who fell into bitter and 
terrible temptation. In your garden he planned to make 
Monk appear a dishonored man, in your garden the 
sinner sorrowed for sin, suffered in paralyzing fear and 
eventually met his death. Read his final words to me 
and try not to judge — try not to judge.” 

The repeated silence came from Mary’s lips in earnest 
pleading, her eyes were eloquent with appeal. She 
watched the husband and wife reading together Mat- 
thew’s feebly penciled lines, saw the color mount to 
Arrow’s brow, flooding his face and neck as he realized 
the injustice done to an old and valued servant. Once he 
seemed inclined to throw the letter down, as though its 
painful sentences filled him with overpowering horror. 
Then he read quickly to the end, with an expression of 
cold disdain. But Mary’s words rang in his ears, and 
he checked the harsh sentence he would otherwise have 
passed on the dead man’s deed. 

Josephine covered her face in silence and thought of 
the day when Monk first realized he had irrevocably lost 
his character and forfeited his home. She remembered 
his wild self-justification, his repeated assurance that it 
was the work of an enemy and Arrow’s refusal to believe 
the assertion. 

Strange that through Vines’ unholy deed Mary came 
to dwell in their midst, shedding brightness and life, 
making the rough ways smooth. Mary came to plant in 
a sinner’s heart the first seeds of repentance, to find 
Monk a situation in which he would again be trusted, to 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 


375 


restore Oliver to those who loved him and to give Arrow 
the most illuminating powerful inspiration of his life. 

“What can we do?” said the artist, controlling the 
angry words which trembled on his lips. “How can we 
make up to Monk for all he has suffered?” 

Josephine was at a loss to answer, instead she looked 
at Mary with dumb appeal. 

The blue-clad figure came a step nearer, standing 
between husband and wife, speaking without hesitation, 
and addressing her words especially to Arrow. 

“Of course you will instantly recall him. You can 
give him back the White Cottage and the post of head 
gardener. Tell him Providence has put into your hands 
a certain proof of his innocence, assure him absolutely 
on this point. He loves every inch of the grounds. He 
has never been really happy away. The night he came 
to see me I held out this hope of return. I told him I 
was only there for a short time, that truth would eventu- 
ally prevail. I said I would try and reinstate him before 
the autumn.” 

“But you — you are not going away? We cannot let 
you leave us, Mary. We could not spare you under any 
conditions !” The exclamation broke incredulously 
from Josephine. “You must stay always. We want 
you — Rutherwyke wants you. Surely you know how 
dear you are to us ?” 

Mary smiled tenderly. 

“If that be true,” she said, “you must prove your love 
by not pressing me to stay. I have other work which 
calls me far from Abbotts Brooke, where my mission is 
over. A wrong has been righted, an injustice will end, 
and the picture is finished. There is nothing left for 
me to do.” 

A great silence fell. Arrow could not speak. He 


MARY 


370 

dared not look at Mary. Instead he kept his eyes 
riveted on the bare boarded ground with its everlasting 
odor of soap and water. Josephine saw him bite his 
lips, she felt the tears gather beneath her lashes and 
steal down* her delicately powdered cheeks. 

“Perhaps we shall persuade you — even against your 
will, but, at any rate, I won’t believe it yet,” she de- 
clared, holding out her hand to Mary. “When we re- 
turn to Rutherwyke we can talk of this again. Our 
time will be well occupied and we must face a trying 
situation and apologize to Monk. A dying man’s wish 
(however deeply he has sinned) should be held sacred, 
so let us all resolve to keep the truth from Hettie Vines. 
We had better try and get her away at once to another 
part of the country, of course giving her a pension. 
The difficulty will be to stop Mrs. Monk from talking. 
Monk was always a strangely silent man, but when it 
comes to a woman ” 

Josephine broke off in utter confusion; the problem 
seemed beyond her, and difficulties loomed on every side. 
Once again she looked appealingly at the one whose 
threatened absence filled her with a deepening sense of 
loss and approaching disaster. 

Once more Mary spoke, now with increased convic- 
tion, as she remembered the overwhelming gratitude of 
Monk and his wife. 

“When you see Mr. and Mrs. Monk on this painful 
subject,” she said, “recall to their minds the fact that I 
trusted them in their darkest hour. Say it was my spe- 
cial wish — no, more than that, my command — no word 
should reach the widow’s ears to make her suffering 
deeper. Tell them I ask this as a personal favor, as my 
reward ; it is all they can do. In the eyes of the village 
their return to Rutherwyke Place will clear them abso- 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 


377 


lutely, for you can let it be known openly that you have 
sifted this matter to the bottom. Some few may pos- 
sibly guess, but none, I fancy, would be wicked enough 
to send cruel messages to the bereaved woman in her 
new home. Hettie Vines is the last who will hear any 
slur on her dead husband’s memory.” 

Mary’s clear, decisive speech gave Josephine confi- 
dence. Already the first shock of Vines’ death had 
abated, and she now looked calmly upon the tragic 
occurrence, lessened in sadness by its clearing of a 
great wrong. 

“We might have continued to misjudge until the end 
of life,” she said. “That is a truly awful thought.” 

Mary shook her head. 

“Vines could not have held out much longer,” she 
murmured with inward assurance. “The daily and 
hourly strain of his guilt, the increasing demands of 
conscience weighed heavily on his mind. I knew, before 
long, he would certainly make some kind of confession. 
Often when his eyes met mine, his voice failed; he could 
not speak. The steps he heard in the garden were the 
phantom footfalls of the wronged man brought home 
through the agency of a guilty conscience. Surely you 
must have seen how thin and haggard Vines became. 
He knew I suspected. I wanted him to speak of his own 
free will, but failing this I should eventually have ques- 
tioned him, forcing him to tell the whole truth.” 

Arrow looked up quickly. For once Mary read dis- 
approval in his face. “You never gave me a hint of all 
this. Why was I not informed?” he asked. “Surely I 
had a right to know if you were suspicious of Vines.” 

Mary’s face wore a dreamy expression. Very softly 
she replied : “I had to work my own way. I was guided. 
I knew this day would come.” 


378 


MARY 


Instinctively a hush fell upon the man and woman. 
They exchanged one quick, furtive glance. As yet 
their partnership led to no discovery or solution of a 
problem deepening daily as the Ville de Marie visit 
slipped by. 

44 We certainly ought to go back to Rutherwyke,” 
said Arrow. 44 I shall cross by to-night’s boat.” 

Josephine looked startled. She thought of possibly 
returning the following morning, and now she had no 
idea of being left to travel alone. 

46 Is your work sufficiently advanced?” she queried. 
“What about the iron image?” 

He moved to the window and looked across the wind- 
blown waves. 

44 I have taken six detailed sketches; I want nothing 
more. The sea will be rough enough this evening, but 
to-morrow it may be worse, and the boats might stop 
running. I shall not have an easy moment until I see 
Monk and put this cruel matter straight. Oliver is ar- 
ranging Vines’ funeral, but he may want my advice 
and help, though his heart is in the right place, and he 
will do everything that is kind and considerate.” 

Josephine joined her husband at the window and 
looked out across the troubled waters. The roar of the 
mighty breakers filled her with unspoken dread. 

“Mary, what do you think about going too?” she 
asked. “Can we be ready to travel to-night? You see 
we have very little luggage. We could pack everything 
before dejeuner” 

Miss Aquila’s eyes kindled as she turned them toward 
the white-crested ocean. She was standing behind Jose- 
phine and her lips parted in a sudden smile, which 
neither husband nor wife saw. 


A DEAD MAN’S DEED 379 

“Yes,” she answered, “let us go to-night. You will 
be wanted at Rutherwyke.” 

It was the final word. All three mutually agreed on 
speedy departure. The morning walk gave way to a 
swift filling of modest sized trunks. The humble life at 
Ville de Marie necessitated simple dressing, and for 
once Josephine had left England without her maid and 
a number of elegant costumes. 

When dejeuner was announced Mary begged to be 
excused. She had no appetite and preferred to take a 
short walk alone. 

Arrow waylaid her in the long corridor. 

“You said you should visit the iron image once again 
before you left. You are going there now by yourself.” 

She bowed her head in assent. 

“You have seen my sketches?” he queried. 

“Yes.” 

“They are good,” he continued emphatically. “They 
give the right impression. They express what we would 
say.” 

He used the word “we” in accents of triumph. In 
this work, at least, he was with Mary in thought, in 
desire, in high-souled ambition. 

Miss Aquila could not deny the truth of his words. 

“You have done well,” she said — “well.” 

Her praise went to his head like wine. 

“Yet you reward me so ill. You talk of leaving us ; 
you torture me; you kill me. Even now you must go 
alone to the shrine. You have avoided me at my work ; 
you are with Josephine always ; and in the end you will 
cast us both off.” 

The words broke from his lips in a passionate whis- 
per. He would have caught her wrist, but some invis- 
ible force chained his arm with unseen cords. 


380 


MARY 


“Who are you? What are you?” he gasped, “woman 
or sphinx? Speak — Mary — speak.” 

In answer Josephine’s voice sounded from the salon 
door. 

“Arrow, dejeuner is waiting.” 

Mary turned away with a strange, piercing look 
which made him feel he had uttered blasphemy. Her 
light steps descended the staircase noiselessly. Alone, 
she passed unobserved into the open air, and, facing the 
high gale, walked, without effort, toward the shrine of 
Ville de Marie. 

Though midday, it was an hour of solitude, for life’s 
grosser aspect called men, women and children to their 
morning repast. Only those who desired the private 
ear of the iron image would seek her now, to ask a boon 
or crave a blessing. The high gale, whistling over the 
houses, breathed her name to the devout, for was she 
not their Star of Ocean, their Lady of the Sea? 

With blank eyes she gazed upon the world from her 
niche in the blue-stained rock, offering her iron breast 
to those who cried, her iron heart to the weary and op- 
pressed, while her hard brown feet were' worn with 
burning kisses of reverent devotion. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


mary’s girdle 

A LL was strangely still at the shrine. On each side 
of the roughly modeled statue overhanging 
rocks made a natural screen upon which sea-birds 
gathered confidently in white groups. The fishermen 
said they were the spirits of the lost, hovering near 
Notre Dame des Vertus to entreat her prayers. To- 
day Mary paused where the shadows concealed her, for 
a man knelt before the image with clasped hands and 
eyes raised adoringly to its weather-beaten face, his 
whole figure expressing the fervent reverence of a soul 
steeped in supplication or praise. 

He was an old priest attached to the little chapel on 
the cliff, which so many characteristic emblems stamped 
as the special sanctuary of Ville de Marie’s deep-sea 
toilers. Miniature ships, nets, shells, seaweed, coral and 
modeled fish all found a home within those sturdy, 
storm-proof walls. The priest’s ascetic face bore out 
his reputation of learning and goodness. Madame Tel- 
lier spoke often of his splendid preaching and the elo- 
quent flow of words with which he stirred the hearts of 
his congregation. 

“He was fit,” she would say, “to minister in one ol 
their great towns. His talents were such, he should 
have been a cardinal, but Mother Church, bountiful in 
her gifts to the hallowed neighborhood, left them one 
of her brightest stars.” 


381 


382 


MARY 


Evidently he had come to the shrine at the dejeuner 
hour, sure of being undisturbed. 

He prayed aloud, and as his voice fell on Mary 
Aquila’s ear, she trembled with nameless dread, while a 
pale horror blanched her cheeks. Each syllable rose 
clear, distinct, earnest, devout. Sometimes he unclasped 
his hands, holding them out as if in salutation, some- 
times he beat his breast and bent so low that his fore- 
head touched the stones on which he knelt. 

Mary’s parched lips followed the words without 
sound, followed them in trembling agony, while her 
eyes, dim with protesting tears, looked beyond the sea 
and sky to unknown vistas of light. 

The priest’s prayer rose in wild exaltation as with 
holy enthusiasm he apostrophized the blessed Mother of 
God: 

“Hail, Mary, Venerable Treasure of the entire 
Church, Inextinguishable Lamp, Crown of Virginity, 
Scepter of the True Doctrine, Indissoluble Temple, 
Abode of Him who is Infinite — pray for us. Thou 
through whom the heaven exults, thou through whom 
evil spirits are put to flight, thou through whom the 
dead rise, thou through whom kings reign and churches 
are planted — pray for us. 

“O Great Marie, 

“O Greatest of Women, 

“O Queen of the Angels, 

“O Mistress of the Heavens, 

“O Destruction of Eve’s Disgrace, 

“O Mother of the Orphans, 

“O Breast of the Infants, 

“0 Queen of Life, 

“O Ladder of Heaven, 

“O Mother of the Heavenly and Earthly Church, 


MARY’S GIRDLE 


383 


hear the petition of the poor, spurn not the wounds 
and groans of the miserable.” 

The litany ceased. The voice of salutation died on 
the rising wind, which moaned in fury over the cliffs. 
The priest rose, crossed himself and moved slowly away 
with lowered head, holding a devotional book folded be- 
tween his palms. He passed so near Mary that her 
gown brushed his robe, yet apparently he was unaware 
of another presence. Only his lips parted suddenly in a 
smile, and through his veins crept some joyful sense of 
union with the spirit world. 

“My prayer was heard,” he told himself. “The 
Blissful Mother has sent a direct answer to my soul.” 

Mary Aquila stood without moving, for now a second 
worshiper stole on tiptoe to the shrine. This time a 
woman, young, pale, careworn, wrapped in a peasant’s 
shawl, her head covered only by its weight of neatly 
coiled hair. She crept to the iron feet of the silent 
image, beating her hands upon her breast. Then she 
nervously twisted a thin gold wedding ring and looked 
down at a small heart suspended by a chain from her 
sunburned neck. Her tearless eyes were filled with an 
expression of eager supplication, her lips trembled as 
they whispered low, beseeching words. 

“Sweet Lady Saint Marie,” she gasped in faltering 
accents, “for that same great joy which thou hadst 
within thee when the Son of God took flesh and blood, 
grant, oh ! grant my heart’s desire. Have I not prayed 
full many a month? Have I not daily repeated a hun- 
dred Aves, alone, under the apple-trees in my far-off 
home? When I worked in the fields at harvest, thy 
dear name was ever upon my lips. Now I come on 
lonely pilgrimage to ask thee that blessing long with- 
held. For Jean’s sake I plead, as well as for my own. 


MARY 


38 * 

Give, oh ! give us a son. He shall be consecrated to thy 
service, he shall be dedicated to pious work; he will be 
thine, not mine. We are taught that the power of 
prayer is great. Through many supplications, the 
barren may bear fruit and cries of childless women 
reach to the very portals of heaven. Hear, oh! rose 
without a thorn, say I am not accursed as a well with- 
out water and a tree without leaves.” 

She fumbled in her pocket for a small yellow candle, 
;which she attempted to light, but at each effort the rude 
elements extinguished the flames. 

Mary watching, saw the tears course down her tired 
face. From the dust on her clothes it was evident she 
had traveled far to reach the shrine of Ville de Marie. 

Very pitiful she looked, kneeling there, vainly en- 
deavoring to burn her tiny taper, despair at the failure 
of her efforts bringing from her lips a deep, unhindered 
sob. She was quite confident no eyes save those of the 
iron image gazed down upon her bent, pathetic figure. 

The naked austerity of that rugged cliff, tinged by 
fitful sunlight, appeared symbolical of life. Could she, 
like the hard rock, never blossom into a fruitful plant? 
Must she plead in vain till age crept upon her, uttering 
its stern nay? She touched the side of the cliff with 
trembling fingers. This place of constant devotion and 
frequent pilgrimage seemed redolent of prayer, im- 
pregnated with a spirit of devotion. Whispers of 
praise breathed mysteriously through the tempestuous 
atmosphere, prayer wailed in the crashing breakers and 
the screech of sea-birds. To the stranger the very 
stones on which she knelt were mesmerized by the power 
of human supplication and cried aloud: “Oh, Blessed 
Maiden, Delight of Women, most noble and pure — 
intercede for us now in this vale of death.** 


MARY’S GIRDLE 


385 


Her endeavor to light the candle failed so often that 
eventually the young peasant wife gave way to despair, 
and casting her wax taper at the feet of the iron image, 
sobbed pitifully, rocking herself to and fro as if dis- 
tracted, speaking her thoughts aloud. 

“I would have trained him carefully in the love of 
our Lady,” she murmured through her blinding tears. 
“I would never forget my promises. He should have 
grown to adore the Blessed Trinity, especially devoting 
himself to the Mother of God. But she closes her ear, 
she hides her face, she will never answer.” 

Even as the words broke in a sharp wail from those 
quivering lips the pilgrim saw a shadow fall across her 
kneeling figure. Tremulously she raised her eyes to 
face the other worshiper at the shrine. There, by the 
blue-stained rock, stood a blue-gowned figure with fea- 
tures of miraculous brightness and surpassing beauty. 
The radiant apparition looked down with deep compas- 
sion on the stricken woman, the sweetness of God’s 
grace illuminating the tender maternal gaze. This un- 
expected vision of glorious womanhood imparted to the 
stranger a sensation of moving sunshine, of air, of 
light, of dazzling purity. With a heart paralyzed by 
joy the simple peasant gazed upon this loving face, ex- 
quisite in compassion, her breast heaving with wild emo- 
tion. Aloud she cried: 

“Oh, my beloved Lady, my soul’s light, my heart’s 
bliss, by thus revealing thyself, thou hast brought me 
out of hell to Paradise. Lady of pity, lady of grace, 
lady of peace, who am I that thou shouldst deign to an- 
swer by thine own most sacred presence?” 

Mary Aquila came nearer and stretched out her hand 
to raise the kneeling figure, shivering in an ecstasy of 
tremulous elation. 


386 


MARY 


“I will pray for you,” she whispered; “I will pray 
for you to the Virgin’s Son, that He may grant your 
heart’s desire. O woman, learn your error; go hence- 
forth without fear to the Godhead ; kneel at the Cross, 
call upon the Saviour, see Him with the eye of faith. 
When did the Master say, ‘Come through My Mother’? 
When did He bid you cry to Mary? Tell me that ! Tell 
me that, if you can!” 

The voice shook in an agony of remonstrance. The 
brilliant eyes shone with tearless rebellion. Even the 
fierce gale lulled suddenly, hushed by the weighty signifi- 
cance to this burning question. 

The peasant woman could not answer. She merely 
echoed as her brain reeled and the brilliant light around 
her dimmed: 

“To the Son direct, to the Cross, to the Saviour ; the 
Mother’s wish, her word to me.” 

She stretched out trembling hands to Mary, grasp- 
ing the silver girdle which hung around her body. The 
blue-gowned figure started back, as if to ward her off, 
coming forcibly into contact with the iron image, which 
instantly tottered and fell with a crash to the ground. 

The pilgrim gave a piercing scream and covered her 
face with her hands. When she looked up she was alone, 
only the girdle of Mary Aquila lay within reach of her 
quivering fingers. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE PILGRIM’S STORY 

4 4 T WISH Mary would come in. She has been out 
such a long time,” said Josephine. 

“But our boxes are packed; there is nothing more 
to do,” replied Arrow, trying to conceal a note of anx- 
iety in his voice. 

He was terribly afraid his hasty words in the corri- 
dor had offended Miss Aquila. 

“The storm grows worse every moment,” continued 
his wife, walking to the closed window, which the wind 
rattled viciously, while from under the door a sweeping 
draught made the small salon a place of discomfort. 
Suddenly she turned and spoke in a louder voice. “Oh ! 
Arrow, come and look, something must have happened. 
Crowds of people are running in the same direction, an 
accident perhaps. Even that old disabled fisherman, 
who hardly ever moves from his nets, is hobbling toward 
the cliff. This morning’s news has made me terribly 
nervous. Let us go down and make inquiries.” 

Together they sought Madame Tellier, who had just 
returned to the pension with a scarf over her head, 
brilliantly red cheeks and eyes glowing with strange 
excitement. 

“Ah! it is true; it is veritably true,” she cried, wav- 
ing her arms. “Monsieur and madame have heard, of 
course?” 


887 


388 


MARY 


They proclaimed ignorance, eagerly awaiting in- 
formation. They could see that Madame Tellier was 
in the throes of some great emotion. For a moment her 
breath went from her. She fanned herself violently 
with one hand, pressing the other to her side, support- 
ing her ample form against the woodwork of the bureau. 

Evidently she, too, had been running like those hurry- 
ing people on the beach. Now, regaining something of 
her usual calm, though her voice still shook, she spoke 
in her broken English, conscious that her manner had 
raised their expectations and eager not to disappoint 
her guests. 

“Ah! my friends,” she cried, growing familiar in her 
excitement, “we have been truly favored here in this 
place. Our glory will ring through France — from hill 
to valley, from north to south — and to-day’s blessing 
shall be told to our children’s children. I could weep for 
joy. See, the tears are on my cheek, for at first I 
feared it was too good to be true.” 

“Yes, yes, but what has happened?” cried Josephine, 
her eyes alight with curiosity as an eerie sensation crept 
through her veins. 

“A miracle, madame, down there on the beach. Ah! 
do not smile ! We know not the meaning. It may warn 
us the end of the world approaches, and we shall see the 
angels ascending and descending before the throne. 
It may predict the beginning of the big prosperity to 
our town, and that is what I hope. All the faithful will 
flock to that sacred spot, where the Holy Mother stood 
in blinding light. I shall yet see the great families 
coming to my door, I shall build on rooms, I shall be 
rich — rich ” 

Josephine was growing impatient. 

“Please explain,” she said in a tone of mild severity. 


THE PILGRIM’S STORY 389 

“You forget you have not yet told us the nature of the 
miracle.” 

Madame Tellier pulled herself together with an effort, 
wiped her streaming brow and courtesied apologetically. 

“Pardon, monsieur et madame, my tongue it ran 
away, like my head, which is quite lost. Such a big 
sensation comes but once in a lifetime and scatters 
senses. Only to think — only to think, here at Ville de 
Marie, that a miraculous appearance should be granted 
of our Divine Lady herself. She, our star, our special 
light, now, while the waves rise, revealed her glorious 
person to a humble woman, who cried for ghostly com- 
fort. The blessed lips spoke as if music came from 
heaven, and so overwhelming was the majesty of the 
real presence that the iron image fell face downward to 
the ground. You can go and see it for yourselves lying 
at the foot of the cliff. The priest has been sent for, 
and all the town gathers on the spot. It is believed the 
sick may be healed as at Lourdes, since the Divine 
Mother has graciously shown herself in mercy to a 
simple-hearted pilgrim.” 

Arrow listened without a word, while Josephine broke 
in with constant exclamations. 

“How can the pilgrim who saw the vision prove her 
words?” she asked, trying to conceal her incredulous 
attitude from Madame Tellier. “She may not speak the 
truth; you know how easily people are deceived.” 

The proprietress smiled confidently. 

“The woman gives us proof of what she saw, for the 
beauteous figure, bathed in light, handed her a sanctified 
girdle, a relic to keep forever — the girdle of our Lady. 
This peasant came to ask a child of the blessed Mother, 
and now she has received undoubtedly an answer to her 
prayer. Similar relics are sent to women in their hour 


390 


MARY 


of pain for safety and protection; the Virgin left it 
for a sign which cannot be misunderstood.” 

Josephine listened with lowered eyes. Already Arrow 
was eager to start for the scene of the miraculous vision. 
He wanted to view the iron image face downward on the 
earth, to note the general attitude of the people, and, 
above all, to try and find Mary. 

His wife feared the fury of the gale, for to her the 
wind was a deadly enemy, rude, rough, unstable. 

“I could not walk against this tempest,” she said. 
“I must save my strength for to-night’s journey. You 
go and bring me word. Evidently the whole village is 
there at the shrine. See, the people are still running.” 

She watched Arrow pass through the pension yard, 
where small tables stood in groups for outdoor refresh- 
ment. He moved quickly, with elastic step, and she 
wondered vaguely what strange sights he would wit- 
ness. She could picture the excitable foreign tempera- 
ment giving way to tears of joy, to wild words and 
lavish gesticulation. How they would throng to gaze 
upon the fallen image, to learn each detail of the pil- 
grim’s story, already repeated with lavish exaggeration. 
As she turned to retrace her steps up the winding stairs 
she caught Madame Tellier’s eyes fixed upon her with 
a certain pitying solicitude, while the friendly voice 
queried: “Madame did not care to go with monsieur?” 

Mrs. Penreath answered truly: 

“The wind upsets my nerves. I dislike this rough 
weather particularly.” 

The proprietress sighed, then ventured on a remark 
which in cold blood would never have passed her lips. 

“If the love of our Lady were in your heart, you 
would not think of the mauvais temps; but it has not 
pleased the Almighty to show madame the light.” 


THE PILGRIM’S STORY 


39U 


Josephine flushed slightly. It hurt her sensitive 
spirit that this woman should look upon her as an un- 
awakened soul. 

“You see, I am not a Catholic,” she replied, rearing 
her head proudly, “and that makes all the difference.” 

Madame Tellier nodded sadly and followed the re- 
treating figure with her eyes. 

“Holy Mother!” she murmured, “if I have offended 
so good a customer ! The English come but little here, 
and none with such a generous purse as this heretic of 
the private salon.” 

Josephine, though outwardly calm, had inwardly 
caught the spirit of Ville de Marie’s wild enthusiasm, 
and longed for Arrow’s return to hear all details of 
these strange happenings. 

She wondered if the image were injured in the fall, 
feeling glad her husband had completed his sketches 
before the accident occurred. 

As she re-entered the salon her eyes fell upon Mary, 
standing by the window in an attitude of meditation. 
Mrs. Penreath went quickly to her side. 

“I am so very glad you have come in,” she cried. “I 
did not like the idea of your being alone in that fanati- 
cal crowd. Of course, you heard this story of a vision 
at the shrine. All the people have gone quite mad. If 
an earthquake had occurred they could not appear more 
excited. No doubt the wind blew the iron image down.” 

Mary bowed her head assentingly. How strangely 
silent she appeared! 

Suddenly an unspoken suspicion leaped to Josephine’s 
mind. With every nerve quivering, she looked for the 
girdle on the plain blue dress ; it was no longer there. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


GOOD-NIGHT 

T HE Penreaths’ departure from Ville de Marie 
proved a very quiet affair. Everybody was ut- 
terly engrossed by the burning subject of the day, and 
Madame Tellier alone wished the travelers bon voyage . 
Even the pension servants forgot to wait about for tips 
and had to be sought by Arrow, who noted they took 
little interest in the proffered money. 

The peasant’s words, the subsequent utterances of 
the priest, the healing power of the girdle formed the 
sole topics of conversation. The sacred gift had been 
carried immediately to the sick, that their lips might 
impress a kiss of reverent devotion, while later it was 
also on view in the priest’s house. A great wave of 
fanatical enthusiasm spread like fire through the little 
fishing village ; the Holy Mother was their own, and the 
light of God shone in their happy faces. 

Arrow declared he would never forget the scenes wit- 
nessed on the beach. Impossible to break through the 
seething mass of humanity swarming round the pros- 
trate image. In order to view the spot, strong men 
fought their way through groups of women, thrusting 
them aside with scant courtesy and knocking down the 
children obstructing their path. It was a good-natured 
fight, though a desperate one, for all eyes burned to 
behold the hallowed ground where the vision had ap- 
882 


GOOD-NIGHT 


393 


peared — to gain, if possible, some lasting good from 
contact with the stones on which the divine feet of the 
Virgin rested. Arrow watched, fascinated, spellbound. 
Then suddenly the pushing, eager forms fell back, and 
the whole crowd knelt in absolute silence, intensified by 
the previous babble of high-pitched voices. Arrow had 
expected this awed hush to proclaim the advent of the 
priest, and studied the unusual scene, so vital, earnest 
and full of significance, with added interest, as if indeed 
he were watching some weirdly realistic play. 

But no, the man of God was only then starting from 
his chapel on the cliff, where he had been receiving con- 
fessions when the summons came. The new arrival for 
whom the last congregation made way was a woman, 
with blanched face and staring eyes, carrying a bundle 
in her arms. Unhindered she passed to where Notre 
Dame des Vertus lay face downward on the beach, ac- 
companied by the favored pilgrim, holding her charmed 
girdle. She pointed out, with trembling hand, the exact 
spot where the radiant apparition materialized, whisper- 
ing words Arrow could not catch to the bearer of the 
burden. 

A moment later and the pitiful bundle lay uncovered 
on the sun-bleached stones, revealing the form of a dead 
child. Arrow gazed a moment on the fair white fea- 
tures of a little five-year-old girl, with tumbled curls 
and limp, lifeless hands like fallen snowflakes stretched 
upon the beach now so familiar to his eye. He turned 
away, sickened, and as he passed through the crowd he 
heard a voice saying: 

“La pauvre mere ! She thought to bring her child 
back to life. She believed the little one would rise from 
the dead.” 

This painful sight had so startled Arrow, he was glad 


39 4 * 


MARY 


to shake the dust of Ville de Marie from his feet, wel- 
coming the long drive to a distant harbor, the prospect 
of the sea-voyage and the return to English shores. 

He had forgotten to telegraph early to secure a 
deck cabin for Josephine and Miss Aquila and a berth 
below for himself, where he prophesied he would fall 
asleep, however rough the crossing. 

“Nothing disturbs my rest,” he declared, “and I 
should judge from our journey over, you are equally 
fortunate.” 

He addressed this remark to Mary as they stepped on 
board. 

“Yes,” she replied with sudden enthusiasm, “I love 
the sea. I mean to stay out on deck, for such a night as 
this should not be missed. The sight of the waves will 
be splendid; I shall watch them at least for the first 
hour.” 

Arrow’s eyes kindled, as her words conjured up the 
mighty picture of a storm-tossed sea. 

“Splendid !” he echoed, registering a vow that he too 
would taste the wild charms of the midnight ocean — at 
Mary’s side. 

When Josephine reached her cabin her past fears 
suddenly faded. Mary stood beside her as she lay down 
in the berth ; Mary’s voice whispered reassuring words. 
Then, as Josephine’s head rested gladly on the pillows, a 
kind hand stroked her forehead with magnetic touch, 
and sleep peacefully descended like a garment, bringing 
dreams of the happy Ville de Marie days. 

For some time Miss Aquila sat by the silent figure. 
She was not surprised Josephine’s lips smiled and her 
face wore an expression of contented ease. The gentle 
influence had worked a spell which never failed. 


GOOD-NIGHT 395 

“Good-night,” whispered Mary lovingly. “Good- 
night, Josephine.” 

The words reached the unconscious woman in some 
far-off slumberland, for she stirred slightly, with a 
happy little sigh, while her eyelids quivered, as if in 
willing response to the familiar words. 

Mary bent to kiss her brow. Even as the kiss fell, the 
lines on Josephine’s forehead vanished, her face became 
serene and calm as a child cradled in a mother’s arms. 

“Good-night,” came the whisper once again, “good- 
night forever.” 

With noiseless tread Mary opened the door and 
stepped out upon the wave-swept deck. 

Simultaneously a man, wearing a long rain-proof 
coat, joined her. 

“You must not stay out here,” said Arrow in a voice 
of concern, “for I am told it will be a very nasty cross- 
ing, and we have not seen the worst yet. These huge 
waves break over the boat with such power that it would 
be quite possible to end with something worse than a 
wetting.” 

Mary stood against the cabin, holding the handle 
tightly. 

“You mean,” she said, “their force might sweep us 
away.” 

Arrow caught at a rail to steady himself as he re- 
plied : 

“Yes, I mean that.” 

Mary showed no trace of fear nor did she appear 
anxious to return to the cabin. 

“Is Josephine asleep?” he asked, speaking low into 
her ear, with a glance at the closed door. 

“Yes. I sat beside her for a few moments and she 


396 MARY 

dozed off. Sometimes I am successful in helping people 
to rest.” 

Arrow drew a step nearer. His feet were wringing 
wet, yet this precious moment with Mary was worth 
some personal discomfort. 

“I believe you can mesmerize,” he said. “I have 
thought it more than once in the studio.” 

She smiled and made no answer for a moment. Then 
she murmured tenderly: “It was just influence, because 
I love Josephine.” 

As Arrow listened he fancied he had never heard so 
human a note in the voice which reminded him of the 
Gabriel bell. 

“I am glad you love her,” he said. “It gives me hope 
that you will stay at Rutherwyke. It is not possible 
that we could let you go. Don’t you realize what your 
presence means to us? It has been such a goodly fel- 
lowship, so full of inspiration, so rich with example. 
You remember telling me, the day we reached Ville de 
Marie, that I must not be surprised at anything. Well, 
I tried to follow out your words, but I found the task 
difficult. Have you any fresh surprises in store? I 
merely ask this one question, though I should like to 
press so many upon you. Such countless ‘whys’ crowd 
to my mind, only I won’t utter them, because I know 
they would displease you. Sometimes I think you like to 
be incomprehensible.” 

Mary turned a pair of searching eyes upon him, and 
though he had caught their light on canvas, he hardly 
knew them now. 

“Oh! no,” she said emphatically, “but I must obey 
another Will, and I could never make you understand; 
you must not try, it is not meant. You were born to 
great works; be contented with your own life, and leave 


GOOD-NIGHT 


397 


me to order mine. You might try to fathom my sorrow, 
but there is a depth of woe the human heart cannot 
pierce in sympathy ; it must experience, it must live the 
pain and drink the cup. Think of this when your pic- 
ture goes forth to the world. I have indeed another 
surprise in store, but when it comes, do not let it trouble 
you. Say to yourself : ‘She loved us both with an en- 
tirely disinterested spiritual love.’ If a wish can bring 
a blessing, Arrow Penreath, I wish you prosperity.” 

She placed her thin white hands in his, and they were 
cold as the hands of death. All warmth of human pas- 
sion drifted from the man’s heart as that icy clasp froze 
his veins. 

“Mary !” he gasped, “Mary !” 

He could frame no other word. The chill of a great 
dread gripped his soul. Even as he spoke a wave broke 
over the deck, all but sweeping them from their feet. 

“Go,” she whispered — “go. It is not safe to remain.” 

She turned as if to re-enter Josephine’s cabin. Re- 
luctantly Arrow obeyed; he dared not trust himself to 
look again into those dear eyes. 

“Sleep well,” he whispered brokenly. “God bless you 
for your gentle words and the kindly wish so good to 
remember. I shall never forget that you loved us 
both." 

As he passed with difficulty to the gangway he pic- 
tured the scene in which Mary Aquila’s Madonna-like 
face had been mistaken by a simple French peasant for 
a vision of the Virgin at Ville de Marie’s shrine. 

“Why,” he asked himself, “had Mary concealed the 
fact? Surely she must know that he and Josephine 
guessed the truth.” 

Humility, perhaps, and a shrinking shame that such 


398 MARY 

things should be, a horror of naming the unasked wor- 
ship her beauty kindled. 

He thought, as he lay down, of the Virgin Mother 
dear to French sailors, who invoked her as their guide, 
their anchor, their port of refuge, their haven in ship- 
wreck, and the Mary in the picture at Rutherwyke, 
breathing her protest with voiceless eloquence. 

“Perhaps the seamen are praying to her now,” he 
murmured as he closed his eyes, “calling upon their 
brilliant Ocean Star, instead of seeking the true divinity 
— the Man of Sorrows, the patient Christ — who trod 
the waves and calmed them with those three short words, 
‘Peace, be still.’ ” 

******** 

The deck was entirely deserted by passengers and the 
great, grand waves rose higher and higher, mighty, 
magnificent — merciless in their strength. 

Mary stole to the far end of the boat with light step, 
untouched by the fury of the wind, even as the men of 
God walked through the fiery furnace of old. Her blue 
cloak hung from her shoulders, and not a fold of her 
clothing, not a hair of her head stirred in the boisterous 
gale. 

She stood for a while watching the force of the storm, 
with a smile on her lips. Then a vast wave suddenly 
towered above her head. As it rose she lifted her hands, 
making the sign of the cross. A rush of water swept 
the deck where the blue gowned figure stood, and a 
moment later a sudden lull fell across the phosphores- 
cent sea. 

Far away a soft voice chanted a low “Good-night” — 
the voice of Mary Aquila. 


a 


55 


‘IT IS FINISHED' 


A CHARMING ROMANCE 

The Greatest Wish 
in the World 

BY E. TEMPLE THURSTON 

“There have been few stories so sweet, so ten- 
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figuring bequest of a deserted girl baby.’* (Edwin 
L. Shuman.) — Chicago Record-Herald. 

Q “There be books, fortunately, that of theme and 
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pure humanity as to make one — ay, even one 
who is not over-rich in sentiment — rejoice that he 
has eyes to read and heart to feel. And * The 
Greatest Wish in the World’ is one of them.” 

— Chicago Inter Ocean . 


MITCHELL KENNERLEY Publisher 

2 East 29tji Street New York 



by Mrs. Belloc Lowndes 
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the gift of putting into living folk-speech the tangled 
technicalities of the schoolmen; no controversial 
critic has had at his command so vitriolic a wit and 
used it so magnanimously ; no ruthless iconoclast of 
intellectual idols has shown himself so conservative 
and yet so able an architect of intellectual optimism. 
Mr. Upward’s inquiry is developed as an interpre- 
tation of a cryptic phrase in the will of Alfred 
Nobel, ‘a work of an idealistic tendency.* Its pro- 
fessed object is ‘to forge upon the anvil of sense a 
definition of hope that will ring true in the ear of 
the materialist as well as of the idealist.* And its 
prosecution is Socratic in its argumentative shrewd- 
ness, its unity of purpose, its unswerving directness 
and its triumphant simplicity.’* 

—Mr. J. B. Kerfoot in LIFE 

A t all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publisher on receipt of price. 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY, Publisher, New York 


The Market 

for Souls 

BY ELIZABETH GOODNOW 

i2mo , cloth , gilt top, $1.25 net 

\ 

CJ This book is issued in the hope that it will prove of 
real service as a contribution to the study of the “ Social 
Evil,” which is now receiving such earnest attention and 
careful investigation. It contains some strangely vivid 
stories, making clearer the characters and separate trag- 
edies of those who live upon the wages of moral death. 

^ The Brooklyn Citizen says of one of these stories: 
“ In this limited space the author has written one of the 
greatest of short stories ever composed, a classic of its 
kind that ranks with the best of Maupassant, of Balzac, 
of Poe, and yet will stand out among even these.” 

*1 The Boston Transcript says: “A revelation of one 
side of life that prevails wherever man and woman 
dwell. Its pathos is overwhelming, and it will carry a 
message to the multitude that the multitude should hear 
and remember.” 



Mitchell Kennerley 


Publisher, New York 









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